Out of the Night that Covers Me
by WinterIsComing01
Summary: Francesca Fontaine has a dark secret that forced her to flee New Orleans. But can she bury it forever, or will it eventually find her in Franklin County, VA? Forrest/OC. Rated M for language, violence, and lemons.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I own nothing from this film except my own original characters.**

**Also, this story touches on issues of race in the Jim Crow South. There will be offensive language (as much as I can stand, anyway) and very sensitive subject matter.**

**Chapter 1**

_Bam_.

The sound of the gunshot in the close quarters of the townhouse blasted through Francesca Fontaine's ears. For a moment, she remained in her crouched position in the corner of the parlor, her arm still extended, her hand still gripping the pistol. And it was still shaking.

She didn't move, even when silence recaptured the room. The gunshot blast echoed in her ears and she wondered vaguely through her hazy mind whether or not she'd just permanently deafened herself. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the large oval mirror in a gilded frame on the wall across from where she was crouched. She was battered, bloody, tear-streaked and looked terrified.

The rational part of her brain, small though it was at this moment, told her she needed to get moving. Everyone on the block must have heard the deafening roar of the gun, and the police would be at her front door in no time.

She rose unsteadily, her legs quivering with nerves and strain, tottering on her high heels. She dropped the pistol and reached her gloved hand up to her face to brush away the tears and other moisture her face had produced; her white glove came away streaked with red blood. She looked at the body of her fiancé, Thomas Lattimore, lying on the floor, in the middle of the Persian rug. She had shot him right through the chest. His eyes were closed and blood pooled around him.

Just a few moments before, he had been verbally and physically abusing her. He had discovered her little secret, one that was obvious to her whenever she looked at herself or the picture of her mother in her precious, tiny locket, but not to the general public because she covered it and carried it so well. He had found her locket, her sterling silver trinket she always wore around her neck. And for the first time in the year of their courtship and engagement, he was actually interested in it enough to pop it open.

She would never know what made him do it – it was just a small necklace, after all, one she very rarely ever took off. She had taken it off this evening to replace it with a bejeweled collar, loaned from Thomas' mother, to wear to the governor's ball in town. This was New Orleans, after all, and the crème de la crème of society was going to be present. It would never do to wear such a simple chain among a roomful of diamonds, rubies, emeralds and sapphires, especially not when she was on the arm of one of the most respected lawyers in town. She'd removed her locket and placed it in her tiny evening bag for safe keeping, to replace it around her neck later on when she gave the jewels back to Thomas. Upon their return from the ball, she had gone into the powder room to freshen up, and somehow, some way, Thomas had gotten it into his mind to look into her evening bag. Maybe he'd been looking for a cigarette and had seen the locket, and then got curious about what was in it – a photograph of an old lover, perhaps? Whatever the case, he had come across her locket, the one she always wore, the one he'd never, ever asked about, and opened it.

It was the beginning to a very, very quick and bad end.

He'd seen the picture, he'd seen the undeniable resemblance, and he'd flown into a rage. He'd slammed open the door to the powder room, and Francie had caught a glimpse of her own startled, bright blue eyes in the mirror as she whirled to face him. He'd grabbed her by the back of the neck and shoved the locket toward her face. He'd called her names, horribly despicable, offensive names that cut her deeper than anyone could ever know, and then he'd started beating her. He'd flung her around the room, causing her to trip in her heels on her long dress. He'd kicked her in her ribs over and over until she was sure they were bruised. He'd shoved her onto her back, crouched over her, and began raining blows down on her face, neck and chest. She'd done her best to squirm and move and struggle to deflect his blows, but Thomas was a very large man, and she was rather small. She felt her nose bleed, her lip break. Felt a cut over one eyebrow open up in her smooth skin, the color of creamy milk with a splash of coffee. One thing she noticed was the silence in the room save for their breaths and grunts. Once he had stopped with the verbal berating and focused solely on the physical attack, all conversation had ceased. And she was not screaming, not crying; she was concentrating hard on finding a way to stay alive.

That plan had begun to dissipate when Thomas' large hands closed around her slender throat and squeezed down. Her eyes went wide as she stared up at him, scrabbling at his hands, trying to claw him even though it was useless because she was wearing gloves. She managed to kick up a leg, connect her thick, tall heel into his side, and with a yelp, he'd rolled off her.

"You filthy, lying colored bitch," he'd growled. "You tried to get one over on _me? _Do you know who _I am_?"

"A monster!" Francie had cried back, finally finding her voice. "You're a hideous, horrible monster!"

He had glared at her for a long moment, and then had very casually thrown her locket, her beloved locket, the only thing she had that connected her to her mother, into the fireplace.

"_No!_" she screamed, and dove after it. Without thinking, she had plunged her hand into the flames and plucked her locket off a log. The chain had already begun to melt, and her glove caught fire.

She had screamed in pain and whirled away from the fireplace, stumbling away from Thomas. She had shoved the chain of the locket between her teeth, moaning as the hot silver burned her tender, bruised and cut lips, but she was too intent on slapping away the small flames that burned her left hand to register the pain. She yanked the glove off, screaming between her teeth when she saw that pieces of the material had melted into her skin.

Thomas had been laughing at her, watching her and laughing. She looked up at him through tear-filled eyes, unable to process that this was what her life had just become.

"Pulled your skin off, did it?" he had said tauntingly. He tilted his head in mock concern. "Let me see. I want to know if the flesh under there is really black or white." He laughed again and started across the room toward her.

Francie's feet had begun to move before her mind could, shuffling her back away from him around the sitting table that separated him. She had seen a dull flash of black metal out of the corner of her eye on the end table by the sofa. Thomas' pistol, the one he had been cleaning earlier today.

"Come here, my darling," he had crooned, mocking her still. "Let me flay every inch of that pretty skin of yours off your body and let me see it for myself. Let me see the lie you've been living, the lie you've been holding over me and everyone else for so long." As he spoke he pulled his silver letter opener from the desk he was passing, pulling it into his palm and holding it like a dagger.

Francie's eyes went wide and she had nearly tripped over herself in her haste to get away from him. She reached back and realized she was gripping the end table.

"Come here, my charming little Negress," Thomas had intoned. "You lying piece of shit. How dare you embarrass me and my family? My grandfather was a well-respected plantation owner in New Orleans a hundred years ago. My lineage is impeccable. And you actually thought you could try to dirty the waters of my family with your tainted blood!" His voice increased to a roar as he rounded on her.

Francie had automatically reached for his pistol and then had run blindly away, finding herself trapped in the corner of the room behind the loveseat.

"What will you do with that, my love?" he had asked, amused. "You haven't the gumption to kill me. Don't you know your people knew better than to rise against their masters?" He held up the letter-opener. "Now, I shall kill you for your insolence. Perhaps I will whip you first. How would that be?"

Before she fully knew what she was doing, Francie had lifted the pistol and pulled the trigger.

Now, she snapped out of her reverie and forced herself to move. Her left hand throbbed horribly, but she ignored it, rushing into the bedroom and grabbing her largest suitcase. She began throwing in handfuls of clothing and a couple pairs of shoes, and whatever valuables she could get her hands on. She hurried into Thomas' study and whirled the combination for his safe. He had never thought she knew it, but she did, and she yanked it open. She scooped out piles of bills and valuables, mostly his mother's jewelry. Mrs. Lattimore never trusted banks and she trusted her bastard of a drunkard husband, Thomas' stepfather, even less.

When she emptied out the safe into an old satchel, she counted out fifty dollars and stuffed the wad of bills into her bodice. She hurried back into her bedroom and did a frantic double check for anything else she might want to take. She grabbed a handkerchief and wrapped it tightly around her injured hand; it hurt like hell, but there was nothing she could do about it now. She heard sirens approaching in the distance and knew they could only be for her.

She slammed the suitcase closed. She slung the satchel onto her shoulder and snatched up her luggage, then hurried back into the parlor. She glanced at the pistol on the floor, then, as an afterthought, leaned over to grab it. She hesitated, not quite knowing what to do with it. She didn't want to put it in either her suitcase or the satchel for fear of it being discovered, so she shoved it into the top of her silk thigh-high stocking, held in place with a garter strap. The pistol was a small revolver that was only slightly bigger than the palm of her hand, and though it was metal, it was very lightweight. Walking was awkward with the intrusion of the gun against her thigh, but nevertheless, she hurried out the door with a long look over her shoulder at her dead fiancé.

_No time to think of it now,_ she thought, racing for the backdoor. _I must hurry._

:O:O:O:

The train stopped in Atlanta the next evening, and Francie was utterly grateful for the break, rising from her seat to stretch her legs.

It had taken a day to get from New Orleans to Atlanta. Francie had gone through a rollercoaster of emotion during the trip. She was terrified, and alone, and completely unsure of what life would be like now. It amazed her to think that fifteen minutes had forever changed the course of her life.

She had killed her fiancé. She mulled that thought over and over in her mind. She had taken a man's life. In self-defense, of course, but still – a man's blood was on her hands. How had she come to this juncture?

Shame burned through her at the thought of her secret that she had carried. For however wrong Thomas had been in his reaction, she could understand his anger. She _had _been living a lie, not just during their courtship but also for her entire life. She was not exactly who she appeared to be, but to live her life as who she truly was, was to accept the life of the oppressed and abused. And she had not been born or raised that way.

All her life, Francie had been a proper Southern young lady. She had been raised with the best education, the best manners, the best clothing, the best of the best everything. Her mother had died giving birth to her, and her father, the owner of a sugarcane and cotton plantation just outside New Orleans, had raised her. She was his only child, and he kept the secret of her heritage and illegitimacy from everyone.

Beauregard Fontaine III came from a long line of slave-owning cotton planters, wealthy from his first breath. His father, and his father's father, had been great plantation owners in their day, flourishing before the start of the War Between the States. For his part, Beau sought to quietly distance himself from what he felt was a shameful history for the Fontaine family. The rest of his lineage descended from French nobility which, to Beau, was a damned sight more interesting and respectable than some cotton-planting slave-owning Southern rebels. When those ancestors had come to this land and mingled with the Spanish, giving birth to a new, Creole-influenced wave of Fontaines, that was when the trouble had begun.

Beau had intended to marry, once he took over sole ownership of his family's plantation on the death of his father. He wanted a wife, and children, more Fontaines to help carry on the name and do their best to undo the negative history on an otherwise rich family lineage. Those plans had shattered when one day, by complete chance, he had met a young lady by the name of Leticia Abellard.

The romance was doomed from the start, and would never have been accepted by society; Beauregard Fontaine III, a Creole named for one of the greatest generals the Civil War had ever known, a blood-bred gentleman from a good, strong family of planters – to marry a half-African, half-Indian girl whose ancestors were slaves? It would never have done, and in fact, it might have gotten them both killed.

Leticia Abellard was a highly educated, beautiful young girl with aspirations to go north. The South held no charm for her; her own lineage was too checkered and uncomfortable, and the South was far too cruel and abusive toward those it viewed as the lower-class. Her own grandfather and great-grandfather before him, in fact, her entire family history on her father's side as far back as she knew, had all been slaves. Her mother came from highly proud Cherokee stock, but they too had fallen under the heavy, oppressive boot of the white man. Leticia was something of a musical genius, and dreamed of leaving the South to go to Chicago or New York to play the piano and become a great singing legend in vaudeville. Those plans came to a screeching halt when she fell in love and shortly after, found herself in the family way.

Francie thought of her mother for the umpteenth time as she descended the train, nodding at the train attendant from under her black cloche hat that she pulled low to hide the injuries to her face. She'd slept in her evening gown the first night, and then found time to wash up, tend to her injured hand a bit more closely, and change her clothing, selecting a slim dark gray wool skirt and a blue sweater that matched her eyes. She pulled her matching gray overcoat around her a little more closely to ward off the spring chill, and to also attempt to disguise herself. At any moment she feared she might be apprehended by the police, if word had traveled this far fast enough.

Her stomach rumbled and she looked toward the brightly lit diner across from the train depot. There was an hour until the train would begin its next leg. She would stop in Roanoke, Virginia tomorrow morning and then continue on to her final destination – New York City.

She strode across the train platform with her satchel in her good hand, her heels clicking on the ground. A sandwich and a hot cup of coffee was just what she wanted. She pushed into the diner, noting and ignoring a sign in the window that said "Whites Only", and took a seat at the counter. Aside from herself, there were only two other patrons in the building – a pair of tough-looking young men. They eyed her as she entered, but she did her best to ignore them. She wanted to eat quickly and get back on the train, in her cabin, and go to sleep.

"What'll ya have, honey?" A weathered older woman approached her. The woman did a double take and frowned as she noted the cuts and bruises on Francie's face. She almost looked as though she wanted to ask her about it, then seemed to think better of it.

"Just a turkey sandwich, please," Francie said quietly. "And a cup of coffee, too."

"Comin' right up." The woman set a cup and saucer before her before filling it with hot black coffee. She set a small pitcher of cream and a bowl of lump sugar down as well before turning to prepare Francie's sandwich. As Francie doctored her cup of coffee, difficult to manage with her left hand wrapped in a fresh handkerchief tied as neatly as she could manage, she could hear whispers coming from the booth where the young men were sitting. She couldn't hear exactly what they were saying, but if they were whispering, she knew it was likely about her.

The waitress set a plate with a sandwich and a couple of pickle spears before her. Francie nodded gratefully and dug in, all the while keeping her ears perked toward the booth.

"That'll be thirty-five cents, sweet pea," the woman said, and Francie nodded as she chewed her enormous first bite. She reached for her satchel on the stool next to her and tried to block it from view as she dug through it. She tried to find something smaller than the hundred-dollar bills that were piled together. The best she could do was locate a five-dollar bill, which she tried to subtly slide across the counter.

"A five, eh?" the woman asked, holding it up to the light. Francie sighed inwardly and didn't need eyeballs in the back of her skull to know that the two men were looking. Their hushed whispering had ceased. "Ain't ya got anything smaller?"

"No, ma'am," Francie said as quietly as possible.

"Gonna have to break out the petty cash box to see if I got change for this." The woman ambled off into the back of the diner where there was presumably an office.

"Big cash for a little girl," one of the men called. Francie barely glanced over her shoulder. She took another bite of her sandwich in reply.

"She's ignoring you," the man's companion said with a snicker. "She's too good to talk to you."

"Where's your man?" the first man continued. His Georgian Southern drawl lilted through her ears. Francie made no move to reply and kept eating her sandwich and sipping her coffee although her stomach had long ago begun to beg her to stop.

"He ain't you, Billy," the companion said with an outright guffaw this time.

"How about the likes of you two rascals stop pesterin' this poor young lady?" the counter woman returned, glaring at the two men in the booth. "You ain't bought much more'n a cup of coffee 'tween the both of ya, so I think it's high time y'all started to _git_."

"Fine, Mama Mason," one of the men grumbled. "Jimmy, let's go."

Francie felt her stomach unclench a little as the bell above the door tinkled and signaled their departure. She accepted her change from the woman, but left a dollar bill on the counter as she put the rest into her bodice.

"You forgot one, ma'am," the woman said politely. Francie shook her head.

"That's for you," she said quietly. "For your trouble and your – assistance."

The woman looked horrified. "Ma'am, I do thank ya kindly for your generosity, but I never got a tip s'big in m'life – it wouldn't be fittin' for me to accept it just now –"

"Take it, please," Francie insisted with a small smile. She took a final bite of her sandwich and another swig of her coffee, then reached out and took the woman's hand, opening it and pressing the bill into it. She shouldered her satchel and pulled her coat more tightly around her and walked out of the diner.

It had gotten fully dark and the train still idled on the tracks, steam rising from it into the night sky. A glimmer of stars overhead caught her attention, and for a moment, Francie tilted her head back to appreciate the view, the chill in the air pulling her breath into fog as she exhaled, long and deep.

Her peace was shattered suddenly when rough hands grabbed at her and hauled her to the side of the diner, forcing her against the brick wall as another hand clapped down hard over her mouth.

"Hi, honey," one of the men from the diner breathed in her face. Francie scrunched up her nose. He smelled of bitter coffee and something stronger, more pungent – alcohol. "Ooh, look at that face of yours. Someone worked you over good, huh?"

"We'll just be taking this from ya," the other man said, wrenching her satchel away from her. Francie was horrified and lunged after it. The man holding her pressed her back while the man with the satchel danced away and laughed.

In the distance, she heard the conductor shout, "All aboard! Departing for Roanoke, Virginia. All aboard!"

Panic shot through her. All of the money, the jewels and her train ticket were in that satchel. She strained for it again until she felt the sharp, cold steel bite of a serrated blade press into the soft flesh of her throat.

"I'd hold still if I's you," the man holding her whispered. His hands slid boldly down her body, squeezing here and there. "Mm. If only we had time."

"Billy, c'mon!" the other man said urgently, and Francie heard the sound of boots thumping on the ground.

Billy met Frankie's gaze and he pressed a wet kiss to her neck where the blade was. She turned her head frantically, trying to scream against his hand, and suddenly, the two men were gone, their running footsteps in the darkness the only indication they had ever been there. Francie's knees finally buckled and she dropped to ground, sobbing.

The footsteps from the front quickened, and suddenly the conductor was by her side, helping her up. "Miss," he said, concerned. "Are you quite all right?" He looked into her face, and his eyes widened. "Who did this to you?"

"I was robbed," Francie sobbed. "They took my money. My ticket. Everything I had." She barely heard him as he demanded to know who had done such a thing, where they had gone. She only came back to earth at the word "police".

"What?" she asked, tears pulling mascara trails down her cheeks.

"I said, I shall summon the police to come here and assist you. Perhaps they can help get your things back."

"No," she said, trying to stay calm. "No police. I have a bit of money left. I will purchase a new ticket."

"But ma'am," the conductor said, horrified, "all of your money has been taken!"

It took another five minutes of pleading with him to get him to let her alone, albeit confusedly. Francie could not afford for him to call the police in light of her deed; she would have to suffer the consequences.

Those consequences turned out to be quite unfavorable, she discovered at the ticket booth.

"This is every dime I have," she said frantically to the ticket booth attendant. "Whatever do you mean, it's not enough?"

"Ma'am," the attendant said tiredly. "For the last time. You want to go to Roanoke."

"New _York_," Francie corrected insistently.

"New York. Forgive me. There are several more stop between Atlanta and New York. This here," he gestured to the pile of bills and coins that Francie had produced, somewhat ashamedly, from her bodice, "ain't enough to even get you to Roanoke, which is the next stop for this rail line."

"But," Francie said, feeling panic pulling at her. "I can't stay here!" Atlanta was far too close to New Orleans. New York was a safe haven. "I must at least get to Virginia!"

"Oh, you can," the attendant said, then pointed across the tracks to another depot. "You've got enough money for a one-way ticket to Virginia on that there rail line. It ain't quite as nice as ours, I hate to tell ya, but I'm afraid you can't ride on ours."

"And – and that will get me to Roanoke?" Francie asked. She could do without luxury as long as she could get there.

"No, ma'am," the attendant said. "It'll get you to just outside Roanoke. Very small depot 'tween the town of Rocky Mount and Franklin County. You don't strike me much as the mountain-woman type so's you might try your hand at small-town life there in Franklin."

"Franklin…County," Francie repeated, feeling real despair. She had never even heard of such a place – what on earth was in Franklin County?

However, if she had never heard of such a place, it was unlikely that anyone might come looking for her there. In the meantime, she could look for a job and earn enough money to get herself to New York.

She swiped old tears off her face and nodded. "I'd like to buy a one-way ticket there, please," she said quietly.

The booth attendant nodded, seemingly relieved to be at the end of his dealing with her. "Fine. I'll have your suitcase removed from this train, and I'll have someone escort you over to that there depot to wait on the train. Shouldn't be more'n fifteen minutes or so."

Francie took her ticket and waited on her luggage, grateful at least that had been spared, and allowed the conductor to lead her across to the other tiny depot. He still looked at her oddly, unable to comprehend her refusal for help to get her money back, but he waited with her quietly until the train arrived, to make sure nothing else untoward happened to her. She bade him a quiet goodbye and boarded the train. It was old, dirty and dingy, but she was alone in her car. She found a seat near the front and huddled against the window.

As the train pulled off into the night, she was too scared to go to sleep but too tired to think. Instead, she prayed. She prayed that the Lord would forgive her sins and maybe, just maybe, find a way to bless her in Franklin County, Virginia.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Guys, thanks for your comments on the first chapter. I'm so happy that you liked and so flattered that some of you read it just because I wrote it. *blushes and smiles* Here's the next chapter. We get to meet the Bondurant boys now. I hope you enjoy. Besos!**

**Chapter 2**

The bright sun shone through Francie's window, warming the side of her face and waking her from a troubled, dreamless sleep. As she jerked awake, she glanced about her car and saw that she was still alone. There were to be no amenities to speak of on this rickety iron wagon, she could tell; she cursed herself for not packing anything to eat. There would be no more stops until she arrived at her destination.

She leaned the side of her face against the cool glass window and for a long moment, enjoyed the feeling. Growing up, she had never been permitted to bare her skin in the sunlight – her father had always been so adamant about it. She would turn so brown, he'd said urgently, so brown that people would know. They'd know.

As a result, she'd been required to wear long sleeves, gloves, mittens, shawls, veils, hats – anything to protect her skin if she had to be outdoors for any period of time. Kept out of the sun, her skin was creamy and pale, but there was a deep olive undertone to it, one that would not take much prodding to blossom into a rich, golden brown color if she allowed it – or was permitted – to do so.

With a sigh, she remembered that even if she wasn't in New Orleans anymore, she was still in the South. She pulled her face from the rays and scooted over to the seat next to her, out of the path of the sunlight.

She reached into the pocket of her skirt to retrieve her locket and fumbled with the tiny clasp. The chain had partly melted from Thomas throwing it into the fire and the locket shell itself was scorched, but fortunately the clasp had remained undamaged, as did the picture inside. She opened it, so hard to do with her injured hand, and stared down at the face of a woman she'd never known, but loved with all her heart anyway.

It was a photograph that had been taken of her mother the year before Francie had been born. The photo itself had been snapped using a Kodak Brownie, and her father had painstakingly cut the picture to fit perfectly inside the locket and had given it to Francie on her fifth birthday. She must never forget her mother, Beauregard had said. He'd made her promise. _Never forget your mother. You must always remember, for she is a part of you._

Her mother had been a great beauty, and to Francie, she was the most beautiful woman who had ever lived. Her skin was like Francie's – creamy pale with a dark undertone, except it was slightly darker and her father had told her it had a bit of red in it, from her Cherokee side. Her hair, though smoothed back in this picture, had been wild and dark and curly. Francie's natural hair was exactly the same, a thick ebony mane of both silky and coarse strands, with medium-sized unruly curls, but her father had made her undergo chemical smoothing treatments to keep it perfectly straight and silky. Folks could identify colored people's hair, he had said, and no one must ever know the truth.

Her mother's eyes were huge and wide and dark. Her nose had been slightly hawk-bridged and wide at the bottom, and she had round cheekbones and full, luscious lips. Francie's face was a perfect mixture of both her parents. She had her father's straight, perfectly formed jaw. The bridge of her nose was straight and slim like her father's, but the base of her nose widened out like her mother's. She had her mother's lips and her cheekbones as well as the size and shape of her eyes. Their color, though, her most distinguishing feature, a lovely, bright, crystal clear blue shade, belonged to her father.

He loved her eyes, for a multitude of reasons. One was that it was his unique gift to her. The other was that it was so unusual in someone of her true racial background that it would help her façade as an olive-skinned white girl, perhaps with some distant Spanish or Italian blood at most.

_No one must ever know, ma petite_, he would say, stroking her cheek sadly. _I want you to have the world. So no one must ever know. You must not forget your mother, but you must not speak of her to anyone. And no one must ever, ever see her picture. They won't understand, ma cherie. No one will understand or accept you the way I do, because you are my darling Francie._

When the train lurched to a sudden stop some time later, Francie jerked awake and realized she'd fallen asleep again. She blinked rapidly, her eyes dry, and she glanced out the window, seeing a tiny, rundown train depot just outside.

She had arrived in Virginia.

With a sigh, she gathered her belongings and stood up, stretching her arms and legs and yawning deeply and in a most unladylike fashion before moving to the front of the car. The conductor was standing at the door and nodded curtly to her.

"Ma'am," he said with brusque politeness, handing her down the steps of the train. She glanced around, seeing there was no one else at the depot. A set of wooden stairs led up a short but steep hill to a road, and then there was nothing. Nothing for miles.

Francie sighed and started up the stairs. Though it was early spring, the sun beamed down on her, and after a few steps she decided it was too warm for her overcoat. She held her suitcase in one hand and slung her coat over the opposite arm, then reached the top of the stairs. The gravel road was completely empty, but there was a sign that read "Franklin County 10 miles".

Francie bit her lip as she glanced around. There was no taxi stand in sight. She looked down at her feet, encased in their low-heeled, stylish black pumps. She groaned to herself. Her size fives would be the only taxi she was going to be able to locate.

With a sigh, she started forward.

:O:O:O:

Forrest Bondurant was in a bad mood.

To be sure, he was generally of a serious, sometimes dour deportment, and even in his good moods, his humor was difficult to discern from his bad ones. Those who knew him best knew when he was truly grouchy and when he wasn't.

Today, he was most certainly grouchy and sour.

He sat in the passenger seat of his truck, with his baby brother Jack behind the wheel, talking Forrest's ear off as he tried to count the money made from the sale they were heading home from. In the bed of the truck, his older brother Howard was riding with their covered crates of 'shine and apple brandy.

The sons of bitches they'd just gotten done meeting with had actually had the audacity to try to steal not only the Bondurants' money, but their inventory _and _Forrest's truck. That hadn't ended up boding well for the trio of Irishmen, who had actually thought their stiletto knives would serve as a match for Howard's rifle or Forrest's brass knuckles. Once they'd dropped their useless little pig-stickers, Forrest had calmly slipped the brass onto his fist and molly-whopped the middle brother, the one who seemed to be in charge – like him – right in the cheekbone. He felt the bone break under the force of his blow, and he'd gotten the bastard's nose, too. Blood sprayed, and Forrest had made his point.

The apparent toughness of the other two immigrant lads had vanished as fast as the middle brother's teeth had flown out of his mouth. Forrest had leaned over the body of the middle brother and planted his boot right smack-dab in the middle of the man's chest, pressing down with most of his weight.

"Boy," Forrest rumbled in his lazy Virginia drawl. "I don't know how y'all do things in the Old Country, but I'm tellin' you now, right here, from me to you. This type of shit in Franklin County will bring you nothin' but death. You're mighty lucky you already paid me, even though it was a farce, elsewise I'd be much less inclined to just let you walk on outta here with naught but a broken face." He spat on the ground, next to the man's head. "Needless to say, I'm afraid our future business dealings have been ruined from this unfortunate incident. Let me also add for clarity's sake that if I see any one of y'all around here again, I'll shoot your heads clean off your shoulders. We clear?" He dug his heel in deep until the man groaned.

"Aye, aye," the oldest brother said anxiously. "'Twas a bad move on our part. Please, be kind and let up off me brother's chest 'fore you put a hole in it."

"You lucky we ain't put a hole in _your _ass," Howard intoned from behind Forrest, his rifle still trained on the oldest brother's head.

Forrest had wiped blood, not his, off his hand with his handkerchief before reaching into the other pocket of his pants and removing a cigar. He popped it into his mouth and struck a match on a rock next to the man's head on the ground and lit his smoke. He took several long puffs before he finally removed his foot from the man's chest.

"Get the hell outta here," he growled. "Remember what I said."

The two brothers had picked their injured sibling up off the gravel, loaded him into their truck, and peeled away.

All was well that ended well, Forrest reckoned to himself now, but he didn't like surprises. He never had, and he'd been caught off guard one too many times in the recent past for his comfort level. He'd only just started to feel like his old self again after the long road to recovery from the shootout with that dirty son of a bitch Charlie Rakes, and his throat still itched from time to time from that damned ugly scar around his throat.

"Whoa!" Jack suddenly called, speeding along but his head turning toward something outside Forrest's window. "Didja see that? Huh? Forrest? Howard, didja see that?"

"I seen it," Howard called back loudly, over the rush of the wind.

Forrest never looked up from counting the money. If only Jack would shut his trap for half a minute, Forrest would be able to count it one time. Instead, Jack had been yapping his ear off about something to do with Miss Bertha Minnix, and though Forrest tried his best to block him out, Jack's voice was annoyingly loud and Forrest couldn't keep his concentration.

"Forrest, didja see her?" Jack slowed the truck slightly. "Look. A woman walkin' on the side of the road."

"Keep driving, Jack," Forrest said, thumbing through the bills. "We ain't pickin' up no hitchhikers."

Jack sped back up obediently, but Forrest was irritated to see that his eyes kept cutting back to the rearview mirror.

"Forrest, that ain't no hitchhiker!" Jack exclaimed.

"She walkin' with her thumb stuck up and out?"

"Well…yes," Jack admitted, somewhat abashedly.

"What else would you call that besides a hitchhiker?" Forrest spoke to his baby brother with a patience he didn't feel.

"Forrest, what I'm tryin' to tell you right now is that there woman ain't just a hitchhiker. That's a damn fine classy lady right there, she is."

Forrest calmly folded the stack of bills and stuffed them into his pocket. "I don't give a good goddamn if that was the First Lady Lou Hoover herself. We ain't pickin' up no goddamn 'hiker. Now, keep on driving, Jack. Don't make me have to tell you again."

Jack turned red with annoyance at being treated like a child, like he always did under Forrest's admonishing, but he kept driving and Forrest nodded to himself. They'd be home in no time at all.

He reached out to grab the dashboard when Jack hit the brakes suddenly and the truck lurched violently to a stop. Forrest watched, amazed, as Jack turned the truck around and sped back in the direction they'd just come from.

Forrest stared at him. "Have you lost your fucking mind?" he demanded, his voice low and gravelly with violence. "Jack, if you don't turn this goddamn truck around, I swear 'fore the Lord I will throttle –"

"She collapsed, Forrest," Jack said, his voice full of excited anxiety. He pointed. "You see? She collapsed."

Forrest looked out the windshield in the direction his idiot brother pointed and saw that there was, indeed, a heap of wool, silk, bare legs and heels on the side of the road. He sighed inwardly.

"Ma would roll over in her damn grave if we just left her, Forrest," Jack was saying loudly. "C'mon. We have to at least see if she's 'live or dead."

Forrest sucked his teeth and bit his lip to keep from saying anything, and when the truck rolled to a stop beside the body and Jack leapt out, he got out more slowly. He glanced up at Howard, who shrugged and leapt to the ground to join him. Together, they sauntered around the truck to where Jack was already on his knees beside the body, attempting to roll her over.

"Think she's still alive," Jack said, pawing at her. "Wonder how far she walked? Huh? Whaddya think?"

"Step back and stop yankin' on her, Jack, Jesus," Howard said peevishly, removing his ever-present jar of corn from his pocket and taking a swig. "Has to be at least six, seven miles from the nearest train depot. Damn, she's dressed awful fancy. Wonder what the hell she's doin' out here? Goddamn, will you look at her face?"

Jack had rolled her over and Forrest glanced down at her. She had pale skin that had reddened slightly from the bright sun exposure, but her lips were colorless. He saw the shallow rise and fall of her chest beneath her little cardigan. Her black hair was messy and coming out of its knot. But her most distinguishing features were the marks of violence on her face. By the looks of it, someone had worked her over, and good. His eyes moved lower and he saw that her left hand was messily bandaged.

He sighed, squinting off into the distance as he thought. It was only Jack's comment about their Ma that gave him pause for consideration, and he knew that his brother had been right. Ma would have turned over in her grave had she known that her three sons had left a woman – clearly a lady of good birth – rot on the side of the road like a dog.

"Howard, put her in the bed with the crates," Forrest sighed finally. "I reckon we can at least drop her off at the hospital. Jack, pick up her things and put them in the truck."

Forrest refused to touch her himself, so he stood to the side with his hands in his pockets, watching as Howard picked up the woman's limp body and carried her to the bed of the truck. He jumped up, jostling the woman.

Forrest lifted a hand and pointed vaguely. "Careful now, Howard, Christ." He walked up to the side of the truck as Howard wedged the woman in between the crates and the back of the cab. "She needs water."

"Ain't got no water, but got plenty o' 'shine." Howard grinned mischievously and held up his jar.

Forrest considered it for a moment. "Maybe the smell will perk her up some."

Howard unscrewed the lid and waved the jar in front of her nose like it was full of smelling salts. Even from Forrest's position he could smell the sharp, pungent aroma of the booze. He watched, quietly fascinated, as the woman's face scrunched up slightly and she stirred.

"That's it," Howard said, then cupped her chin and gently opened her mouth. "Get you a little sip, there, darlin'."

He poured some of the corn into her mouth and pressed her chin to close it, and she had no choice to but to swallow. Forrest thought maybe she would swallow then come to some, so he could find out who in the hell she was. He wasn't prepared for what happened next.

She coughed, spluttered, gagged, and swallowed, and then her eyes flew open.

Forrest hadn't really had any expectations of what her eyes might look like. Since she had black hair and a pale olive complexion he reckoned distantly he might have expected her to have dark eyes. He wasn't ready for a pair of the biggest, brightest, bluest eyes he'd ever seen on a creature, let alone another human being, to meet his own for a beat. He froze, unsure of what to do, and then those eyes were closing and she slumped over.

"Passed right on back out," Howard observed. "Well, alcohol ain't no substitution for water, I reckon. Best get her to the hospital, wouldn't ya say, Forrest? Damn, she sure had some pretty eyes, didn't she?"

Forrest ignored him and moved toward the cab. He climbed in. "Drive to the station and unload the booze," he said to Jack. "Then I'll drive her to the hospital."

"Gee, Forrest," Jack said, starting up the engine. "It might take a while to unload those crates. Don't you want to get her to the hospital faster'n that?"

Forrest gave him a withering stare. "Then you better move your ass, don't you think? You think it's a good idea to pull up to the goddamn hospital with so many crates of 'shine and brandy?"

"No, sir," Jack mumbled.

"Then get to the station and make it fast."

"Yes, sir," Jack muttered, then, louder, "Fuck you, Howard," when Howard's peals of laughter drifted in from the bed of the truck.

Jack made it back to the station in record time, and he, Forrest and Howard quickly set about removing the crates from the bed of the truck and hauling them into their newly rebuilt underground storage facility. The small in-ground shed was inconspicuous and well-built, built with Forrest's own hands in fact, and it was cool and dry, even in the hottest of Virginia summers. The only disadvantage was that the staircase he'd fashioned was rickety at best and it was a bitch to carry down heavy crates of moonshine and brandy, especially when he was in a hurry.

When the crates were all finally unloaded, he sent Howard and Jack into the station to re-open it and mind the customers, ignoring Jack's anxious looks at the still-unconscious lady in the truck bed and Howard's openly amused grin. Forrest strode out to the truck and let the tailgate down, pausing for a brief moment to sigh at the state of his affairs, before reaching in and gently grabbing the woman's ankle. He slid her across the bed toward him until he was able to gather her up into his arms, then loaded her into the cab of the truck. She was so still and didn't stir at all that it worried him, and he held a finger under her nose to make sure she was still breathing. He walked around the front of the truck to the driver's side, seeing his baby brother on the porch, strutting back and forth like a worried mother hen.

"Get your ass back in the station, Jack," he called calmly over his shoulder. Jack either ignored him or didn't hear him and stayed put. Forrest sighed again and climbed into the truck, throwing it into gear and starting off for the hospital.

It was about a ten minute drive from the station to the hospital, which he spent looking between the road and the woman repeatedly, much to his own annoyance. She was a stranger, someone who had unintentionally disrupted their day. Someone who, for all intents and purposes, he would have left on the side of the road had Jack not referenced their mother.

Forrest wondered in a curiously detached way what it said about _him_ that _he _hadn't thought of what their mother might think about the situation.

He supposed that it was only fitting, then, that he was the one who was driving this stranger to the hospital. His eyes moved over her face again, taking in the violence there. She had cuts and bruises everywhere, but he could see that her skin was creamy and smooth, with a lovely bone structure. For a moment his eyes lit on her lips. They were colorless, much like the rest of her complexion, but they were lusciously full, like his own, and he eyed them curiously for an instant before returning his eyes to the road. It wasn't another fifteen seconds before he was studying her again, though, and he took in the slender but shapely, womanly figure beneath her stylish city clothes, trying to place her origin. Atlanta, maybe? Savannah? Charleston? He wondered if she was even Southern. Perhaps she hailed from the North, like New York or – or – Chicago.

The thought of Chicago made pain burn through his heart briefly before he snuffed it out. Maggie had been from Chicago, the beautiful Maggie Beauford who had come into his life for a short period of time but left an indelible footprint on his soul. The beautiful redhead who'd captured his heart the moment she'd first captured his hand in hers. The woman who had claimed him, body and soul, and then one day decided she couldn't take him, his lifestyle, or this sleepy little town anymore. She told him she was leaving, and she left.

In fact, he'd driven her to the train depot himself.

He shook himself quickly, desperate to think of something else before the pain flared up again. He distracted himself by looking between the road and the woman's long legs underneath her dirty skirt. He reckoned that if they could get the dirt, sweat and grime off her, and fix up her face and her hand, she might be a good-looking woman.

He pulled to a stop in front of the hospital and got out to come around to the woman's side. He gently extracted her from the cab as her dead weight draped over him. He carried her carefully up the steps of the hospital, seeing the good Doc Jim Nelson walking up to meet him. He'd gotten acquainted with the doctor well over the past year for his own medical needs and nodded brusquely at him.

Doc Nelson clapped him on the shoulder. "Well. I see _you're_ fully intact, Forrest. What have you brought me today?"

"Found this'ere woman on the side of the road," Forrest grunted back. "Opened her eyes once but don't think she knew it. She's got some troubles about her, as you can see."

The doctor was studying her still face with a worried frown. "I do see. Anna – please bring some water. Poor thing's probably dying of thirst. Forrest, bring her this way, if you would be so kind."

Forrest grunted again in affirmation and followed the doctor to an empty room with a bed. He laid the woman down on the bed and stepped back, glancing at the doctor.

"Who is she?" Doc Nelson asked. Forrest shrugged.

"Don't know. Got her suitcase and coat in the car."

"Well, bring them in. Do I call you when she's up and feeling better?"

"Rather you didn't," Forrest replied. "I don't know this lady from Eve's housecat. Ain't nothin' I can do for her."

The doctor nodded pensively. "Well, bring in her things, if you would please."

Forrest went out and retrieved her suitcase and coat from the truck. For a brief moment he considered going through her belongings to see if she had any identification or perhaps someone that could be notified of her present state and location, then immediately let it go. It wasn't his business.

He brought the suitcase and coat into the room just as the doctor was attempting to give her some water.

"Thank you, Forrest," Doc Nelson said over his shoulder as Forrest began to back out of the room. "You're a good man."

"Umm," Forrest grunted. "I suppose Jack is." He left without further comment, but he couldn't help another glance at the woman. She was still motionless on the bed, but he swore he saw her eyes open for just a moment and focus on him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

In another hospital, hundreds of miles away, in a grand town, full of life and jazz and fun, a detective leaned over a bed, looking down into the pale face of an unconscious young man. He looked up the doctor.

"He'll pull through?" he asked gruffly. The doctor nodded.

"Whoever shot him missed his heart by an inch. Less than an inch, in fact. It'll take him a few months to get back on his feet but we got the bullet out, repaired all the damage. He should be fine, as long as he takes it easy." He wrung his hands nervously. "Detective, who could have done such a thing? The Lattimores are a respected family in this town, Thomas himself a lawyer. Who in the world would want to shoot – to kill – such a prince?"

"It was his fiancée," the detective said bluntly. "She shot him and took all his money and his family's valuables and ran off. Appears she wanted out of the engagement but wanted all the perks of marrying into such an old, respected family instead."

"How awful," the doctor gasped. "Where did she go? Have you found her? What will happen to her if you do find her?"

"Haven't found her, but we will, rest assured, and it won't be pretty for her," the detective replied. He looked down into the face of Thomas Lattimore and patted his cold hand that rested on the bed.

"It won't be pretty a'tall. There are repercussions for such heinous crimes, and Miss Francesca Fontaine is no exception to the rule _or_ the law."

"Will she –" The doctor swallowed hard. "Will she hang?"

The detective met his eyes grimly. "Let's just say that if I don't locate her before the Lattimores do, she'll _wish_ she'd only hung."

:O:O:O:

Forrest had just arrived back at Blackwater Station and no sooner had his boots thumped up the first two stairs of the wooden porch than Jack and Howard came out to meet him in a rush.

"Doc Nelson just called," Howard said calmly. "Said you need to come to the hospital."

Forrest stared at him, annoyance filling him. "I just _left_ from the goddamn hospital."

Howard shrugged, an easy smile on his face. One of his most endearing and simultaneously irritating qualities, at least in Forrest's book, was his older brother's constant amusement at everything that went on around him. Howard seemed to take especial amusement in his younger brother's annoyances, whatever they happened to be at the moment.

"Says you need to come on back. The lady we found is pitchin' a fit."

"Umm – a _fit?"_ Forrest repeated.

"Called not ten minutes after y'all left. Said she's woke up now but she's bein' 'difficult'. Best drive your ass back on out there, Forrest," Howard said. He clapped Jack on the shoulder hard. "And you best get your ass behind that counter and start cookin' some lunch. Got customers in there." He sent Jack back into the station with a push and grinned at his younger brother. "Doc sounded pretty alarmed, Forrest. You better git."

Forrest sighed heavily, then returned to his truck. "When in the hell did I become a goddamn cabbie for the sick," he grumbled to himself, then slammed the door closed with more force than necessary.

:O:O:O:

Francie glared at the closed door of her hospital bedroom. She knew it had been locked from the outside – she'd heard it. The good doctor and his nurses had locked her inside the room.

As someone who had never been a fan of hospitals, she didn't want to be there any longer than necessary, but moreover, she simply couldn't _afford_ to be there any longer. So far, the doctor had done no more than to give her some water, for which she was grateful, but she remembered very early on after waking up that she had no money. Thus, she had no way to pay for any treatment they might prescribe her. She wasn't so disillusioned as to be unable to recognize the fact that she _did_ need treatment, very much, but she was sure they weren't in the habit of working for free.

They asked her for her name. She gave them her correct first name but her mother's maiden name. She thought about making up an entirely false name, but she couldn't think fast enough, and she didn't want to arouse their suspicions by giving an extended pause between the question and her answer. They would either believe that she had hit her head and damaged her memory – in which case they would _insist _on keeping her – or they would get suspicious and realize she was deliberately trying to give them a false name. Francie had had no access to a radio or a newspaper – for all she knew, they had already heard of what happened in New Orleans.

She was told that the doctor and nurses were going to "call him". She didn't understand what that meant at first. They would call _him,_ the doctor and the nurses said. _Him_. Who was _him?_ For a moment Francie was terrified they meant Thomas. But then she remembered that Thomas was dead; he was dead because she had killed him herself.

Then she remembered something else.

It was a hazy, foggy, vague memory, to be sure. In fact, it was more that she remembered the smell and less that she recalled any visual image. The smell, she remembered, and the feeling, and the sound.

She recalled a younger voice, male, initially. She recalled worried, timid hands pulling at her. Then she remembered a different pair of hands. These had been steady, firm. She remembered a sharp, acrid odor in her nose followed by a horrible taste in her mouth that made her cough and splutter. Then things went dark as her memory hazed out, until the next one came to her.

She remembered seeing, for only a brief second, pewter blue eyes beneath a wide-brimmed hat, staring at her.

Then everything had gone black again for a while before her memory picked up once more. She remembered a strange feeling of being dragged, then warm, strong hands moving over her, pulling her into a solid chest, followed by a strange sense of vertigo as she was lifted into the air. Then the smells came – wonderful smells, masculine smells. Thomas had never smelled this way – he had never smelled of rich, smoky vanilla, cinnamon, pine, tobacco, dirt. The smells excited her subconscious and she remembered feeling very small in the arms of the person who held her. She instinctively knew this person was a man. And then she had blacked out again briefly, but her next memory picked up then, of when she had tasted that fresh, cold, revitalizing water. Her eyes had opened again of their own accord, and there were those pewter eyes once more. She only remembered the eyes; she could recall nothing about their owner.

There was a knock on the door, and then a nurse stuck her head in. Nurse Anna, Francie recalled.

"Miss Abellard?" the nurse said softly. "You – your – _friend_ is here."

"I haven't any friends," Francie mumbled, her brow furrowing.

"Just the same," the nurse replied, a hint of agitation in her voice. "You've a visitor. Come and speak with the doctor now, please." She stood to the side, holding the door open for Francie, looking at her expectantly.

Francie swallowed and made her feet move toward the door. She felt self-conscious now that she was awake – she knew she looked a mess. Her hair was out of sorts, half contained in its original knot and half of it cascading over her shoulders. She was covered in dirt and filth, and her sweater was torn and skirt rumpled. Not to mention the cuts and bruises to her face. The bandage around her hand was dirty, and while alone, Francie had peeked at the wound underneath. It was turning red with the onset of infection.

She made it to the doorway and paused, until Nurse Anna pressed gently on her back to encourage her to keep moving forward. Francie saw her doctor standing in front of someone, speaking in a hushed voice. Francie's heels clacked on the hard floor with her first hesitant steps, and the doctor turned, revealing the person with whom he had been speaking.

For a moment, Francie could only stare.

It was the owner of the eyes; she knew this intuitively although she could recall nothing about the owner of the eyes, other than the eyes. But moreover, even from her slight distance, she could smell him, and her memory stirred.

Aside from his steady pewter eyes, the man was tall, taller than her, and stocky with solid muscle. He looked absolutely imposing, from his combed over hair to the scruffy beard on his face to the hardness of his gaze. In fact, he might have been downright terrifying had it not been for two things. One was the way he swept his hat off his head at the sight of her, holding it idly against his chest by its top in a gesture of unmistakable politeness; politeness that seemed automatic in the presence of a lady and that had likely been ingrained at a very young age by the insistence of a well-mannered mother.

The other thing was his lips.

She had never seen such full, plump lips on a man before, and certainly not a man who exuded a sort of quiet danger the way this one seemed to. He would have been a handsome man without them, indeed, but sitting on his face like two new eiderdown pillows, they made him positively alluring.

Francie realized she was staring, and that he was staring right back at her, at the same time the doctor addressed her.

"Miss Abellard?" he asked gently. "Are you quite all right?"

Francie shook herself slightly, pulling her gaze away from the handsomely frightening man with the beautiful lips. "I'm fine," she said insistently. "As I said before, I would like to be released."

"But, Miss Abellard," the doctor said with a heavy sigh, realizing he had to go to battle again. "We haven't even been able to tend to your wounds. You've been walking for miles in this sun, you are dehydrated, and you clearly require medical help. When was the last time you had anything to eat?"

Francie opened her mouth to reply, then snapped it shut when she realized she had to think about the question seriously. She had no idea of either what day or time it was or when she had last eaten. But her stomach felt empty, hollow; she knew it had been too long. She knew the hospital could see to her needs and patch her up, and then she'd be right as rain.

But she had no money.

She drew herself up, summoning her courage and the last of her dignity. "I see no reason why you needed to contact this man – who, might I add, I don't even know."

The doctor frowned. "This man was responsible for bringing you here for help," he said.

Francie swallowed, allowing herself a glance at the man's still face as he stared back at her. "I believe he has done all he can do, and furthermore, I do not wish to have any medical attention. I fail to understand why I am being kept in this place like an animal!"

To her great and utter shock, the man, the pewter-eyed man with the lips, suddenly came forward and gripped her arm, propelling her back several steps away from the doctor and the nurse. Her mouth popped open and she stared up at him, startled. She felt incredible outrage, and tried to ignore the fact that had she not recognized him by his eyes, she would have been able to do so purely by the scent wafting off him and straight into her nose. It was exactly what she'd smelled before; heady, masculine. Delicious. It made her dizzy.

"Take your hand off me!" she exclaimed. She'd meant for it to come out sounding like an imperious command, but it came out sounding like the frightened squeak of a mouse instead. His hand was rough and calloused on her arm, gripping it tight enough to not quite hurt _exactly_; but more so, to let her know that it _could_.

"I fail to understand why it is you're bein' so goddamn petulant," he said, and his voice was like rough velvet against her ears, deep, gravelly. It made her belly flutter nervously. He wasn't frowning at her exactly, but he was looking at her intently; she tried to look past him on either side of his head, desperate to not make eye contact, but his eyes followed her sharply each time and he yanked on her arm a little to get her to look at him.

"It is my right to refuse medical assistance if that is my wish," Francie said, hating the way her voice shook. "I don't know you. I don't know any of you! I didn't ask to be brought here! Now let go of me!"

To her surprise, he did, but he leaned in toward her face instead, his index finger coming to point threateningly in her face. She drew back automatically, but then realized her back was against the window and she had nowhere to go. She swallowed hard and found she couldn't look away from his eyes although the look in them frightened her to her core.

"My brothers and I picked you up off the side of the road like you were some trash," he said. His voice was still low, but Francie immediately heard the warning in it. He was not amused by her antics. "Out of the kindness of – well, not even _my_ heart, but my baby brother's. I took time out of my goddamn schedule to bring you out here so's you could get well, and now I find myself _back _out here because you're refusin' the help we tried to give you. I don't take kindly to people who don't appreciate _my_ kindness, and, lady, whoever you are, it's pretty clear to me you _don't_."

Between the trauma of her crime, the guilt of her secret, the fear for her safety, her confusion, her loneliness, her extreme physical discomfort and her utter fright, Francie couldn't do much at all to ebb the tears that began to fill her eyes and creep down her cheeks under the chastising from this man; this _stranger_, who had not only saved her life but had also tried to get her the medical help she obviously needed.

He blinked in surprise at the sight, then glanced away, clearly uncomfortable. He looked away from her, but he didn't step away, and as he turned his head, Francie saw an ugly scar wrapping around the base of his throat beneath the collar of his cotton shirt. It only frightened her more – who had she gotten mixed up with? Between his imposing stature, his threatening words to her, and now this example of unadulterated violence on his person, she bit her lip and the tears continued to slip down her cheeks, and she hated herself all the while for it as embarrassment flooded through her at her inability to control her emotions before a stranger.

She continued with her exercise in self-embarrassment as she made her confession in a small whisper, unable to believe she was opening up to a perfect stranger. He didn't turn his face toward hers again, but his eyes shifted to her face sharply when she began speaking.

"I-I haven't any money," she whispered, her voice trembling from the tears. "I was robbed in Atlanta. So, you see, I simply can't afford to be here or to get help."

A look of almost angry annoyance came over his face as he turned his head finally to look at her full-on, and she shrank back. What had she said to set him off _now?_

"Why didn't you just open up your goddamn mouth in the first place and say so?" he rumbled quietly, then turned on his heel and strode back to the doctor, reaching into his pocket.

Francie suddenly realized what he was doing and was thunderstruck. Had she made it sound like she was asking for his help? His charity?

"Sir," she said frantically, hurrying after him. "You mustn't. I wasn't asking for your help. I was just –"

He turned and his pewter eyes found hers, silencing her with one look. She watched helplessly as he pulled a thick wad of bills out of the pocket of his sweater and murmured quietly with the doctor. He peeled off a few bills and handed them over. The doctor glanced up into his face, and the man nodded. The doctor took the money and clasped the man's shoulder, then beckoned Francie with a smile.

The man strode for the door, glancing back at Francie once before exiting the hospital.

"Come along, dear," Nurse Anna said, taking her arm gently. "Bed rest, fluids, and food for you. We need to get that hand of yours looked at. What an awful burn. What'd you do – stick your hand into a fire or something?"

"Who was that man?" Francie asked. The doctor stepped forward to assist, and Francie slumped against them, too weak to fight any longer; realizing she didn't _need_ to fight any longer. A perfect stranger had just pre-paid her medical bills – but why? She felt confused gratitude, and also a bit of annoyance. Now, staying here and finding a job was a necessity. She would have to pay the man back before she could even think of leaving for New York.

"That there was Forrest Bondurant," the doctor said. "He and his brothers – well, let's just say we've been acquainted quite personally over the past year or so. They're rather notorious around town. If you've made a friend in Forrest, then you're probably set for life. On the other hand, if you've made an enemy of the man –" He broke off and chuckled and Francie looked at him in fear. "Well. Let's just say gettin' out of Franklin County should be your first order of business."

Francie allowed herself to be laid down on the bed, the doctor's words and laughter swirling in her confused, exhausted mind. She made a mental note to acquire the bill for her stay from the doctor, and as soon as she was released, she would have to look for a job. But what was there to do in such a tiny town?

It was only when the nurses were taking her clothes off her to dress her in a hospital gown that she realized she could still smell him, the delicious combination of aromas that clung to his skin and sweater still lingering in the air and in her nose.

:O:O:O:

Forrest thundered up the wooden steps of the station for the second time that day and opened the door. Blackwater was a little quieter in the early afternoon now that the lunch rush was over, and he'd be able to go into his office and work on the books in peace as he had planned to all along. He hoped, anyway, thinking of his recent disturbances having to do with one young, strange lady in particular.

As he walked past Howard he glared pointedly. "No calls to head back out anywhere while I was gone?"

"None, little brother," Howard called out cheerfully as he leaned against the bar, eating a sandwich. "You get everything taken care of?"

"Yep," Forrest rumbled back, refusing to share any of the details. He took small pleasure in it, knowing it would just burn Howard's butter since the man was as nosy as a ninety-year-old woman, then headed for his office, nodding at some of his patrons as he went. There were jars scattered around on a few of the tables as men took their leisure in the afternoon. He knew it would only be a matter of time before Howard eventually joined them and got uproariously drunk himself.

He shut himself in his office and sat down in his chair, leaning it back against the wall for just a moment as he took a deep breath to unwind and closed his eyes.

She was definitely beautiful.

His eyes popped open at the seemingly random thought, and he frowned into space. He wasn't sure where the thought had come from, but it wasn't welcome. Not now, and not really ever. But each time he let his mind wander or he shut his eyes, even for a moment, he saw a flash of bright icy blue. And now that he'd been closer to her, he'd seen that her irises were ringed in black, and that her eyes were huge, almond-shaped, and surrounded by thick, bristly black lashes. He recalled the way they'd widened the instant before they'd filled with tears. Nothing had made him more uncomfortable, and it had caused him to be a bit rougher with her than he normally preferred to be with women. He tried not to swear around women, as a general rule that his mother had taught him, but so far he'd done so at least two or three times around this lady.

_Miss Abellard._

He'd heard them call her that a few times. He wondered what her first name was.

He sucked in a deep breath through his nose and shook his head, turning his attention to his books. He didn't need to be wondering _anything_ about her, or any woman, for that matter. In his experience, women were trouble. Sure, he appreciated them for who they were – their beauty, their manners and grace, their foolish little ways they had about them. He respected them because his mother taught him to, and sure – there was nothing like the feel of soft, smooth skin under his hand or long-lashed lids batting up at him like he was the only man in the world.

But they were more trouble than they were worth. They messed with a man's head, distracted him. Sometimes it worked out, like the fellows that ended up getting hitched and having children; building families, legacies. But it seemed, at least from his vantage point, that all a man got from dealing with a woman and giving her his heart, was to be a short-term meal ticket, an occasional bed partner, and having said heart stomped all over and ripped to pieces.

In his mind's eye, he saw a flash of red curls and his chest tightened. His muscles tightened, his stomach tightened, his hands tightened, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Every muscle in his body tensed, and then the _snap_ of his penny pencil breaking in his hand brought him back to earth.

_Trouble_, he thought, trying to also push away the mental image of those big, sad, clear blue eyes, filling with tears as they stared up at him.

_Nothing but trouble._


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I know. Three updates in a day. Please don't get used to it! The Muse is being a CRAZY BITCH today. But - please enjoy and leave me lots of reviews. Please. And thank you. :-) Besos!**

**Chapter 4**

Within a couple of days, Francie was released from the hospital.

She'd been given a round of strong antibiotics to ward off the onset of infection from her burned hand, which had been covered in a special salve and bandaged. The doctor had given her some of the salve and extra bandages that she might dress the wound with each day herself until it healed. He said that it was a bad burn but there would no lasting effects beyond some scarring.

He had applied ointments and other salves to the cuts and bruises on her face, and by the time she was allowed to leave, the cuts were already healing and the bruises were fading a bit. And she'd been given plenty of fluids and some food too – apart from the heavy worry and guilt she carried in her heart, Francie almost felt like her old self again.

Now, as she stood outside the hospital, she hesitated. She had no earthly idea what to do or where to go. She glanced around, seeing dust and dirt everywhere, motor cars, small wooden buildings. She thought about what she could do for a living, which skills she possessed; she could cook a little. She knew how to sew.

That was about it.

The doctor joined her outside a moment later, where he'd asked her to wait for him. He held her suitcase and her coat in his hands and handed them over to her.

"Remember to dress that hand daily," he cautioned. "You should be right as rain in a couple of weeks. Might have some unpleasant scarring, like I told you before, but you won't need to wear the bandages after that."

"Thank you, Doctor," Francie said quietly. "I appreciate all you have done to help me get well, and I want to apologize for being so rude at first."

He reached out and patted her arm. "Don't fret, Miss. I understand why you were the way you were. It's all square now."

That reminded Francie of something very important, something she could not afford to forget. "I intend to repay Mr. Bondurant for my bill. Please, what did my expenses amount to so I know exactly how much to pay him back?"

The doctor shook his head. "Mr. Bondurant won't want to be paid back," he said, his tone slightly warning.

Francie set her jaw stubbornly. "I'm afraid I'm not concerned with Mr. Bondurant's wants. I come from a family that insists on repaying debts. The figure, now, if you please."

Doctor Nelson sighed and appeared to be thinking. "Your bill would have come to about seventy-five dollars."

Francie was aghast, but tried not to show it. "Very well. Seventy-five dollars." She glanced around. "Doctor, would you be so kind as to point me in the direction of – of –" She couldn't very well say "hotel"; it was obvious nothing like that existed in this town. "Perhaps, some kind of lodgings?"

"A boarding house?" the doctor supplied.

Francie swallowed. "Yes. Yes. A boarding house."

The doctor pointed in a general direction. "This town isn't s'big you'll get lost, Miss. If you just keep walking that way, you'll be looking for Macready's House. Just a moment." He pulled a small pad of paper from his coat pocket along with a pencil stub and scrawled a message. He tore the sheet off and folded it before handing it over with a wink and a little nod.

"Give this to Macready when you see him. You can't pay right away, I know, but this note from me will vouch for you, once you find a job. He'll bill you for it later."

Francie took the note, touched by the doctor's kindness. She had been planning her speech of negotiations with the innkeeper herself, once she found him; she had hoped he wouldn't require up-front payment.

"Thank you," she said to Doctor Nelson quietly. He patted her on the shoulder.

"G'on, now," he said kindly. "I'm sure I'll be seein' you around."

"Good day," she said faintly, and started off in the direction he'd pointed in. She found the boarding house after not too long, and knocked on the door hesitantly. After a few moments, a red-faced, bloated man answered the door and eyed her.

"M-Mr. Macready?" she asked tremulously.

"Yeah," he said gruffly. "You want a room?"

"Y-yes please," she stammered.

"How long?"

"Indefinitely," she replied.

"My rate is two dollars a week," he warned. Francie remembered the note and held it out to him. He snatched the paper from her hand and his eyes went over it quickly. He finished reading the note and glanced at her. "Can't pay, huh?"

"Not immediately," Francie said in a rush. "But I'm going to go look for a job today, and I'll be able to pay you soon."

"Going to find a job, eh?" the man jeered. "Sweetie, you heard of a little thing called the Depression?"

Francie's mind went blank. She knew parts of the country were suffering from an economic slouch following the stock market crash that had occurred a year and a half ago, but she had not personally been touched by the events that so many others across the country seemed to be suffering from.

Macready noted her confusion and shook his head, reaching out to take her suitcase. "Never you mind. I'll show you to your room. If the good doctor vouches for you then that's good enough for me."

Francie followed him meekly down a long corridor and he paused in front of a door, unlocking it before handing her the key.

"Furnished place, it's small, but there's runnin' water and it will get hot eventually," he said. "We just had indoor plumbin' put in last year." He wiggled his eyebrows, but Francie felt confused; she had always enjoyed the luxury of indoor plumbing. Then she remembered she was in the rural country, not the city, and realized that indoor plumbing was probably a very rare commodity. "There's a room in the basement to do your warsh. I said two dollars before, but for two-fifty you can get full board, which comes with this here room and three hot squares."

"I'll take it," Francie said immediately. He nodded and gave her a few sheets of papers that asked for her personal information. She swallowed nervously, but then remembered. _I'm Francie Abellard now_, she thought. _And no one knows where the Abellard name came from._

"Have those to me by the end of the day," Macready said. "M'wife will have supper ready by six." He eyed her again. "Just got out of the horsepittle, didja? Best get some rest for now, Miss."

"Oh," Francie said, shaking her head. "But I need to go find a job."

Macready winked and gestured into her room. "What will or won't be there, will or won't be there tomorrow, dearie," he said. "Why don't you nurse that hand and just lie down. We'll see you at six." Without waiting for an answer, he backed out of the room and shut the door.

After a moment, Francie reached out to engage the lock, then turned to look at her new surroundings. There was a full-size bed pushed in the far corner, flanked by carved oak nightstands. There was a small table with two chairs on the other side of the room and a small sofa. There nothing else, but despite her upbringing, Francie discovered she felt just fine with the simplicity of her surroundings.

She found a little room off the main living area and discovered it was a brand-new bathroom. She thanked her lucky stars – she could have baths when she wanted them and a sink at which to wash her face, and a real honest-to-goodness commode to use, instead of the outhouses she'd seen littered between the depot and the town.

Francie cranked the knob on the large claw-foot tub and held her fingers under the water. Brown rust spewed out at first, but it quickly cleared and began to warm. She smiled, the first real smile to cross her face in days, and decided that a nice, relaxing soak was in order before supper.

As the tub filled, she disrobed quickly and climbed in the tub, careful to keep her injured hand out of the water. Though she didn't think water in and of itself would hurt it, the flesh was still very tender and she knew the hot temperature would aggravate her wound.

As she leaned back and let her body relax, closing her eyes, her mind whirled. Tonight at supper she would ask Macready and his wife of the local businesses to see where she could find a job. She knew that a train ticket to New York would cost fifty dollars. Her board and meals would cost two dollars and fifty cents a week. And – she sighed. And repaying Mr. Forrest Bondurant would cost seventy-five dollars. If she could find a job that would pay her at least nine dollars a week, she estimated that she could pay Forrest back and still save money for her ticket….in about five and a half months.

She groaned aloud. It was already April; she'd be stuck at least until October. And who knew what would happen to her by then?

Though her mind felt in disarray, her body continued to relax, begging for rest. Her worries soon flowed out of her, at least momentarily, as her senses soaked in the comforting warmth of the bath water. At last, her mind relaxed more to be in tune with her body and she felt herself growing almost sleepy.

Her hazy thoughts turned to Mr. Bondurant once more, as they were prone to do since she'd informally met him two days ago. Though he'd been vulgar and gruff and almost mean, she hadn't been in the presence of such masculinity before and it had unnerved her but intrigued her. She thought of his lips. Unconsciously she moistened her own as she pictured his. She remembered exactly what they looked like, as she had studied them intently and they'd been near her face for an extended period of time. She wondered if they felt as nice as they looked, then reddened suddenly. It wasn't proper for her to be thinking of such things, especially about a strange man she hardly knew, but…

Thomas hadn't had lips like Forrest's. His had been generally what she'd always been used to – thin, small. In fact, Thomas had made _her _feel bad about the size and shape of her own lips on more than one occasion. He didn't like kissing her, he said. No man would. Her lips were too fat. Then, he'd laughed at her hurt. He'd said that a pair of lips like hers was good for only one thing. When she'd asked him what that was, he'd laughed again and said it wasn't fitting for him to tell her before their wedding night, but he'd show her. Oh, he'd show her.

Francie had a good idea of what he'd meant and had regarded him contemptuously. He'd labored under the idea that she was a virgin, and she'd let him go on believing that because she felt a man's pride and ego were important to him. They'd been important to Thomas, anyway. She wondered what he'd have done had he found out that she had, in fact, given up her virginity at the age of eighteen. It had been with a sweet boy, a colored boy that worked on her father's plantation, in fact. It had happened in the tall grass under the magnolia trees in the late summer on the first occasion. She had let him have her body several more times after that, that same summer. His lips had been shaped and sized like hers, and they'd been sweet. Jimmy, his name had been. Jimmy had been kind-hearted and attentive, and he'd given her body so much pleasure she couldn't comprehend it. But Jimmy had gone away, to Chicago to play the saxophone in a jazz club.

That had been seven years ago.

She hadn't experienced pleasure like she had with him since then, not even in her and Thomas's most intimate moments. Thomas had touched her in her sensitive places, but it had been more for his amusement rather than hers. His touches never brought her pleasure the way Jimmy's had, and his lips had been so thin, his tongue so slippery and eel-like. None of it gave her pleasure or happiness.

The only pleasure she got now was what she gave herself, and she was ashamed of herself for it. No proper lady should do things like that to themselves, but…it felt so good, and she grew so lonely at times. Even with Thomas, she had ached from loneliness.

As her body relaxed and her hand drifted between her legs, Francie's mind showed her pictures of a pouty, plump mouth a shade of pink almost obscene on a man, tempered with the masculine scruff of a beard and the hard clench of a jaw. It was all she'd allow herself to think of, and it was just enough.

:O:O:O:

Two weeks later, Francie had a job, and her plan for saving her money was underway.

She'd gotten lucky, she knew. The seamstress in town, Mrs. Everett, had had a woman working for her, but her woman had been pregnant, and the baby was nigh. Her woman had ended up quitting, and once Francie demonstrated her skill with a needle, Mrs. Everett had hired her immediately.

The wages she was being paid were not quite what Francie was hoping for. Due to the state of the economy, and despite being the only professional seamstress in town, Mrs. Everett had regretfully stated that she would only be able to pay Francie seven dollars and fifty cents per week. After Francie deducted her room and board costs that only left her with five dollars remaining. If she hoped to pay Mr. Bondurant back within her time frame, she would have to set aside the remaining amount in its entirety for him. But, with her food being taken care of, there was little else she needed. And if she did need something, well – she'd have to dip into what she'd set aside for him.

She had seen the Bondurants once in town since that fateful day by the side of the road. They'd come into town from their station once at night and had passed her when she'd been walking home from the seamstress's store. She wasn't sure, but she thought that Mr. Bondurant – Forrest, that was – had looked in her direction. He hadn't been wearing his hat but had been puffing away on his cigar. If he had seen her, he certainly didn't let it be known, and their truck had disappeared into the night. She saw the bed was piled high with crates that rattled as the truck jounced over the dirt road. She wondered what was in them.

Now, she was preparing for another week of her new life. It was a Sunday evening, and she was lounging in her room after supper with the Macreadys. They were of a Scottish family that had four generations in-country, and they were a very nice couple, if a little rough around the edges. Mrs. Macready had some slightly outdated ladies' magazines that she had given to Francie, and she was currently devouring them on her sofa. She had been planning to ask Mr. Macready for a ride out to Blackwater Station earlier that day, to give Mr. Bondurant his first ten dollar payment from her, but Mr. Macready had not been able to and Francie hoped to be able to make the payment the following day. She thought it was best to repay him in ten-dollar increments. That way she had a slight cushion if she ever actually needed anything, but giving him his money back in installments made her less tempted to spend it on things she didn't need, like toilet water and rouge.

_Or,_ she thought with a sigh, glancing down at the old dress she was wearing, _material for new frocks._ She knew her clothing was generally nicer than any other woman's she'd seen in town, but having to launder them with her own inexperienced hands and with lye soap, of all things, had ruined them. She looked, well – common.

The dress she wore now had once been white, a lovely dress for spring and summer, but now it was almost cream-colored in places and the material was much more worn. She looked down at the magazine in her lap and studied the outfits hungrily. Though it was dated for the winter that had just passed, Francie's eyes took in the outfits eagerly, wishing pretty clothing could magically appear in her suitcase, even new lingerie. Her lingerie was also getting quite old. She'd only managed to grab two extra sets of underwear beyond what she'd been wearing when she'd fled New Orleans, and it seemed as though she was doing the wash every other day. As a result, the lingerie she had was wearing down and even getting holey in some places.

She was tempted to go buy some new drawers with the money she'd saved – but no. Getting out of the debt she owed to Forrest Bondurant was infinitely more appealing. She'd figure something else out once her lingerie got too worn to be of any further use.

After another hour of torturing herself with the magazine, Francie decided to call it a night and changed into an old nightie and climbed into bed. She turned out the lights and lay quietly for a while, willing her body to relax and unwind. She could never fall asleep easily. She had cracked her window open, as she loved to sleep in fresh air in the early spring, before it got too hot to bear. She listened to the chirp of the crickets, the buzz of the grasshoppers, the hoot of the occasional owl, and her lids began to grow heavy.

Suddenly, either a moment or an hour later, she was startled to wakefulness by the sound of a loud engine. The town was otherwise quiet and the noise rumbled loudly through the night. She hopped out of bed and rushed to the window. It was the Bondurant truck again. She saw one of the brothers, the tall, lanky one, in the bed of the truck that was stacked with crates like it had been the last time she'd seen it. She wasn't sure who was in the cab of the truck, but she was utterly surprised when it stopped across the road from the boarding house in front of an old building she'd always assumed was a lumber mill – at least, that was what it operated as by day.

Her surprise mounted when she saw a couple of men come out of the dark mill, to be joined at the back of the truck by the tall, lanky brother, a slightly shorter, leaner boy, and Forrest. She couldn't hear the words they spoke but she heard their voices talking low together. She watched as the tall lanky man reached under a tarp thrown over the crates and retrieved an object in his hand. One of the men from the mill took the object and then handed something to Forrest, who looked down at it and then nodded. Then, the men disappeared into the mill again, laughing, and the brothers headed back toward their truck.

As if he felt eyes on him, Forrest suddenly turned around and looked up, straight at her. Francie let out a startled squeak and hurried to duck behind a curtain for the dual reasons of being embarrassed at having been caught spying and also having been caught in a skimpy satin nightie, the front of which she knew her nipples were pressing out against in the cool night breeze. But she knew he'd seen her; her window was illuminated by a tall iron street lamp and though her room was on the top floor, the building itself wasn't so tall that a person couldn't clearly make her out. And while she hadn't been hanging out of her window, she certainly hadn't tried to hide, either.

As she clung to the drapes, hiding, her heart pounding, she heard low murmurs from the tall lanky man to Forrest, and Forrest murmuring back. She thought she heard him say "Abellard". The tall lanky man laughed.

"Good evenin', Miss Abellard," she heard called clearly from outside. "Hope you've been doin' well and takin' care of yourself." It was the tall lanky man, and he burst out laughing again.

"Howard, get your ass on that goddamn truck bed," she heard a low, rich voice say. She knew of only one man with a voice like that.

After a moment, Francie heard some stomping noises and decided to chance a peek. She looked out and saw the tall lanky man climbing unsteadily into the bed of the truck as he swigged from a container in his hand. She sucked in her breath when she saw Forrest leaning over the hood of the truck, still staring up at her. She clutched the drape to her chest and gulped a little as she stared down at him, feeling her face flush and her pulse begin to pound in her chest and throat. Though she was covering herself now, she couldn't help but think that this man, this dangerous man who was probably engaged in some sort of illegal activity, had seen her in her nightie and essentially, the outline of her breasts.

Forrest gave her a long look, and even in the darkness Francie could see the way his eyes moved over her slowly, and she felt positively undressed. Then he nodded slightly to her and ducked into the cab as it pulled away. Francie leaned out of her window to watch the truck vanish back the way it came, likely back to the station. After a moment, she climbed back into bed.

She noticed it took a long time for her pulse to slow to a normal pace.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thank you guys so much for getting into this story with me. I really appreciate all the comments so far. Thank you :-) Besos!**

**Chapter 5**

"Damn and blast it all to hell!"

Mrs. Everett's peeved shout and a subsequent crashing noise brought Francie scuttling into the backroom of the shop from where she had been sitting in the front, mending a woman's dress. The seamstress was busy these days; with so many people unable to buy new clothes as frequently as before, they were making do with their old ones by letting out hems and seams for growing children, patching holes, repairing wear. Francie had been slightly dubious about taking a position in such a seemingly specialized profession, fearing clientele would be at a minimum, but it had ended up working out very well. There was always plenty to do, but unfortunately, Mrs. Everett had not been able to raise her wages any higher than what they were, with overhead costs and electricity bills being higher than normal.

"Mrs. Everett," Francie breathed. "Are you all right?" She covered her mouth with a hand, trying to stifle a laugh.

The seamstress looked up at her from where she was on the floor next to a dress mannequin that was in pieces. Her graying hair was askew and she huffed at a lock that had fallen into her face impatiently. The look on her face was so completely aggravated that Francie had to bite her lip hard to keep her giggles contained. Finally, Mrs. Everett let out a chuckle and Francie felt relief as she let a laugh escape and stepped forward to help the woman to her feet.

"I'm fine, child," Mrs. Everett sighed. "This damn mannequin just won't stay together for me and I need to hem this dress." She gestured toward a lovely white dress that was frothing with lace at the low-cut bodice. The front was decorated with mother-of-pearl buttons and the hem was slightly asymmetrical. Francie hadn't seen a dress so beautiful in a long time. She reached out to stroke the material with her fingers.

"It's so lovely," she murmured. "It's almost like a wedding dress."

"It _is _a wedding dress," Mrs. Everett said. "Or rather, it'll be playing the part of one. Mrs. Jayne Lewis's daughter is getting married in two weeks."

Francie didn't know either Mrs. Jayne Lewis or her daughter but she nodded. "I suppose in these hard times it would be rather difficult to find a real honest-to-goodness wedding dress, wouldn't it?" She examined the low-cut back of the dress. "But this is lovely and should suffice."

"Yes, the only problem is Mary Anne is a little on the petite side, so we've had to have it taken in and now we'll have to hem it." Mrs. Everett shoved a mouthful of pins between her lips and her speech became garbled. "Which will be tricky since this hemline is uneven." She removed the pins from her mouth and suddenly looked up at Francie appraisingly. "How tall are you, dear?"

"Me?" Francie was startled. "I am five feet and two inches tall, when my feet are bare and flat on the ground."

"That is the exact height of Mary Anne." Mrs. Everett swooped up a tape measure and casually wound it around Francie's waist and bosom. "Your bosom is a hair larger than hers but your waistlines are the same. You'll be my mannequin. Put the dress on, please."

Francie knew there was nothing more to be said, so she meekly took the dress into the storage room with her and changed out of her skirt and sweater. She hesitated momentarily; the front and back of the dress were low cut and her brassiere was most obvious underneath. She decided it was only herself and Mrs. Everett in the shop and they weren't near any windows, so Francie shucked her brassiere and pulled the dress up. She walked back into the sewing room and Mrs. Everett clapped her hands at the sight of her.

"Well, don't you just look lovely!" she exclaimed. She gestured to a small platform in front of a trifold mirror. "Step up here, dear. How's it feel?"

"The bust is a bit tight on me," Francie said, her eyes practically popping out at her reflection. The tight bodice pressed against her chest and her cleavage was most obvious in the dress. It certainly wasn't fitting for _her_, but all the same, she couldn't help but admire, just a little, the alluring picture she made. "The waist feels just fine, though."

"Good," Mrs. Everett said. She put her hands on her hips. "I must say, Francesca. That bosom of yours is something to be admired." She shook her head and knelt to the floor, taking the hem of the dress in her hands. "Me myself, after having four boys and nursing them all, I'm afraid my bits have gone to pieces."

Francie covered her mouth to hide her smile. "Well, at least you can say you're married with children, ma'am."

"If you consider four grown men children, certainly," Mrs. Everett replied. She pinned up a section of the dress. "Francie, you're a perfectly lovely young lady. Why is that you've no husband or children of your own?" Francie cleared her throat, shifting her weight uncomfortably. "Don't fidget, unless you want to get one of these pins stuck in your leg."

"Well, I suppose I just haven't met the right fellow yet," Francie said softly. "I used to be engaged."

"Did you?" the seamstress inquired. "What happened to him? Left him behind to come out here?"

"Something like that," Francie replied.

"Where are you from, by the by?"

Francie hesitated. "Louisiana," she answered finally, hoping that would suffice.

"Well," Mrs. Everett said. "I know that we Virginians raise some of the finest bucks in the land, if you catch my drift, but I would imagine that that sassy state down yonder you hail from would have a select group of eligible men for someone like you to choose from."

"Not as much as you might think," Francie said meekly.

"Hm. Well, perhaps you should hop on one of _our_ Virginia stock. Especially out here in Franklin County. We do know how to raise them right." She laughed. "'Course, most eligible men are already taken in some way, so they're not really all that eligible anymore. The rest are young, green boys with potential to grow into fine men." She hemmed up another portion of the dress. "Like that Jackie Bondurant. That is a fine young man if I do say so myself, but he's twenty if he's a day, and anyway, everyone knows he'll marry Bertha Minnix one of these years as soon as she can get away from her father. 'Course, even _he_ knows it's a lost cause. He's finally stopped trying to shove other suitors down her throat."

"You know the Bondurants?" Francie asked in surprise.

"Everyone does around here, dear." Mrs. Everett squinted at her. "Do you?"

"We – we've been somewhat acquainted," Francie replied wryly.

"Well, then you know just what I'm talking about when I reference that Jack. How old are you?"

"Twenty-five," Francie replied. Mrs. Everett smiled naughtily.

"I thought you were much younger," the seamstress said, and Francie wasn't sure if she should be offended or not. "Too old for Jackie," Mrs. Everett continued, resuming her pinning. "But just right for that Forrest. That's a handsome devil there, he is. He's the best-looking one of all of them anyway, if you ask me. Man just needs to smile more, is all." She stepped back to appraise her work critically. "And he needs the love of a good woman." Francie jumped when the seamstress's hand swatted her backside lightly and she grinned at her.

"I'm afraid we don't quite know each other that well," Francie said. "I did see them in town a couple nights ago. I rarely seem to see them out here in the daylight."

"They own the gas station just outside the town," Mrs. Everett said. "Then they come out here at night sometimes to conduct their _other_ business dealings."

"Other business?" Francie echoed.

Mrs. Everett smiled again. "Francie, dear, you strike me as very well-bred, intelligent young lady, maybe somewhat sheltered, but intelligent nonetheless. If you've observed them conducting their trade in town at night, then you must know they're bootleggers. It's no secret that this is the wettest county on earth. They just choose not to flaunt it during the day, out of respect for the women and children."

Francie felt like she should be taken aback, for propriety's sake, but truly, she was not surprised to hear it. She recalled the taste of alcohol in her own mouth the day they found her by the side of the road, not to mention the unmistakably pungent aroma that preceded the taste. It made sense. But hearing it put into words made a small flutter of excitement go through her belly. The Bondurants were dangerous men, indeed.

:O:O:O:

At dusk, Francie helped Mrs. Everett close up the shop, and then they parted ways – Mrs. Everett for her own home with her husband, and Francie for the boarding house. Her stomach rumbled, and she wondered what Mrs. Macready would be serving tonight. The boarding house owner's wife didn't cook fancy meals, but they were hearty, filling, and deliciously simple.

As she walked, Francie tilted her head back to enjoy the way the red, setting sun spilled across the horizon as it lowered. There was a cool breeze in the air, but after growing up in the South her entire life, she could feel that warmer weather was not too far away. As she neared the boarding house, she spotted a familiar Ford Model A truck parked out front and that fluttery feeling went through her belly again.

As she got closer, she saw a group of men lounging outside the front of the house. Mr. Macready, she recognized, and three other men. One was young, baby-faced with a bright smile. One was tall and lean, with a weathered if handsome face and a cunning, sly manner. The third was not quite as tall, but solid with muscle. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, but she recognized him by his mouth instantly. He was puffing away at a cigar.

"Ah, there she is!" Mr. Macready was exclaiming when he saw her. Francie stepped hesitantly toward him. She saw the glass jar in his hand filled with clear liquid and knew he was drunk. Francie had been around drunk men a few times in her life, with Thomas being one of them on several different occasions, but it never failed to make her slightly apprehensive each time.

The three Bondurant brothers turned to face her also. The young one and the oldest one smiled at her, but Forrest merely puffed his cigar and fixed her with a steady stare. Francie had the sudden urge to clasp the top of her sweater together, remembering the little show she'd accidentally given him the other night. His eyes didn't miss it, following the movement of her hands, and she wondered if he was remembering what he'd seen, too.

"Good evening," she said timidly.

"Good evenin'!" the young brother said enthusiastically.

"Evenin', Miss Abellard," the tall one said with a sly smile. Forrest merely tapped the brim of his hat in response.

"I's just tellin' these boys here," Mr. Macready slurred, lurching toward her. "'Bout _you_. They done come up here a while ago askin' fer the name of the purdiest gal in town." He grinned into her face as he slung an arm over her shoulders. "I says to 'em, I says, I ain't givin' up Mrs. Macready's first name to them fer nothin'. But I says, I know the name of the _second_ purdiest gal in town and that would be Miss Francie." He giggled and Francie smiled politely in response, but her mind whirled. Why on earth would the Bondurant brothers be checking for her?

"Francesca," the tall brother said, stepping forward and extending his hand. Francie tilted her nose delicately as she smelled the alcohol coming off him in waves. Surprisingly, he didn't seem to be the slightest bit unsteady. "I'm Howard Bondurant. This here's m'brother, Jack." He clapped the younger boy on the shoulder, and he grinned at her, extending his own hand.

Francie withdrew hers from Howard's and gave Jack a shy smile. "Jack. You're…Bertha Minnix's beau." She wasn't sure why she opened with that, but she had casted about in her mind for something to find common ground with. She could feel Forrest staring at her.

Jack's face split into another wide grin. "Why, yes, ma'am," he said proudly. "I sure am. How – how'd you know that?"

"I work for Mrs. Everett, the seamstress," Francie said, pleased that she found a way to make polite conversation. "She mentioned that it was common knowledge around here that you two would most likely be wed one day."

"Aw, gee," Jack said, rubbing the back of his head, blushing and smiling some more.

"Until the day comes when Bertha smartens up and sees what goddamn goober he is," Howard said with a laugh, shoving at his baby brother's shoulder and causing him to stumble slightly.

Jack's face reddened and fell. "Fuck you, Howard," he mumbled.

Francie averted her eyes at the usage of the foul language, and almost jumped when she heard Forrest's low voice suddenly speak up.

"Watch your mouth, Jack," he said gruffly. "Ladies present." Francie couldn't help looking at him in surprise. He glanced into her eyes for a beat, then looked away.

"Well, what can I help you gentlemen with?" Francie asked politely, feeling apprehensive again. "Mr. Macready says you were looking for me?"

"Aw, we come to see old man Macready," Howard clarified, slapping the boarding house owner on the back and causing him to splutter as he sipped from his jar. "Do some business with him. He just likes to embellish, is all. But since you're here, we might be curious to see how you were doin' these past couple weeks," Howard added, shooting Forrest a sly look. "Since we found you on the side of the road that day, and all."

Francie blushed. The memory of it still embarrassed her, and she was embarrassed that she'd sounded so conceited asking them what they wanted with her; of course they were here just to see Mr. Macready. They obviously had an established rapport.

"Yes. I'm well, thank you. I – I do owe you, all of you, a debt of gratitude. You saved my life. And I don't believe I have ever thanked you for it." She felt a little ashamed of herself as she spoke. "So please forgive my rudeness and know that I will never forget your kindness."

"Your face looks much better," Jack blurted. He blushed a little. "'Scuse me. That is to say, the cuts and bruises are almost all gone."

Francie touched her face, a new wave of embarrassment washing over her that the violence her fiancé had done to her was being discussed. "Yes. Everything has just about healed. Thank you, Jack."

"How's that hand?"

Again, Forrest's voice caught her off guard, and she looked at him. As before, he met her eyes briefly and then looked away, a cloud of smoke from his cigar billowing around him.

She held up her hand. "Almost all healed. In fact, I probably don't need to wear the dressing anymore. I guess it's just become a habit. Just some fresh scars left over now." She trailed off, suddenly unable to take her eyes off him. _That handsome devil, he's the best-looking one of them all_. Mrs. Everett's words echoed in her mind as Francie drank him in with her eyes. She knew it was beyond rude to stare, but she realized she was having a difficult time looking away.

She heard a snicker and that drew her eyes away finally. She realized that the two other brothers and Mr. Macready were studying her. Watching her watch Forrest.

She cleared her throat. "Actually, I'm glad you are here." Forrest looked at her curiously, watching as she opened her pocketbook. She pulled out two five dollar bills and held them out to him. "I'm rather reduced to repaying you in installments, I hope you won't mind. I can pay you every two weeks."

Forrest frowned at the money and made no move to take it. "What's this for?"

Francie kept her hand extended. "To repay you for covering the costs associated with my hospital stay," she said coolly.

Forrest eyed her and puffed on his cigar again. He still made no move to reach out for the money. "Don't want it," he replied evenly.

Francie bit the inside of her cheek against the rush of irritation she suddenly felt. "I'd really rather you accept this money, Mr. Bondurant," she said with forced politeness. "I do thank you for your impetuous kindness, but in this economy and with you being a perfect stranger, I cannot abide you covering my hospital care. Here." She stretched her arm a little further, her patience dwindling as he still remained motionless, puffing his cigar and eyeing her coolly.

"I said," he drawled lazily, flicking ash from his cigar, "I don't want your money."

She looked at him hard, leaning negligently against the railing of the short staircase leading to the front door, like an arrogant king, and all of a sudden her temper got the best of her. "Then take it and throw it into the street for all I care!" she exclaimed. "Use it as start-up money to get yourself a new truck that doesn't make such an awful racket at night or choke people with its exhaust from a mile away! But I won't have you paying for anything for me!"

She stormed toward him, taking small pleasure in the way Jack hustled to hop out of her way. Forrest's pewter eyes widened slightly but otherwise he gave no indication he was at all startled by her sudden violence. She was practically against his chest and close enough to smell him again when she looked fiercely up into his eyes and yanked on the pocket of his sweater.

"Do what you will with this," she said irritably, and folded the bills with one hand and shoved them into the pocket. "But you _will_ – oh!"

She broke off with a little gasp as her fingers brushed something hard and cold. Metal. She glanced down and saw a set of brass knuckles in his pocket. She snapped her eyes up to his, feeling her cheeks redden. He pulled slowly and deliberately at his cigar with his spectacular lips, never taking his eyes off her or moving away from her. She became aware in a rush that she was almost pressed up against him, and realized that one of her hands was actually resting on his chest. She stumbled back, her throat tightening as her pulse quickened.

_Brass knuckles?_

The sight of any weapon, including the gun that she had brought with her and used to kill her fiancé, made her uneasy, but something about brass knuckles made her doubly uneasy. That sort of weapon inflicted very personal, severe violence on someone and she wondered how many times and on whom he'd used them. Her heart thumped hard in her chest as she looked at him. He was still lounging against the stair railing casually and he was still looking right back at her.

"I-I must go," she mumbled lamely, glancing at the other men and barely registering the amused looks on their faces. She glanced back at Forrest, casting about for some lofty, dignified comment. "I-I don't want that money back," was all she could think of to say as she backed up the steps. "Do whatever you like with it. Goodnight, gentlemen." She whirled on the staircase and rushed into the building, their chuckles – minus Forrest's – following her inside.

She flew up the stairs as fast as her tired feet would carry her. When she reached the top floor, she heard the muffled sound of boots on the stairs behind her, and she hastened to dig her room key from her pocket. She was surprised to see her hand was shaking a little as she fumbled with the lock. The footsteps grew louder and then slowed. She looked up blankly at the door in front of her as his scent wafted over her shoulders.

When she turned, she automatically shrank back against the door. Though he was not immediately behind her, in fact, he had given her the proper amount of personal space as was courteous, he was closer than she'd expected. He studied her movements, tilting his head curiously.

"I make you nervous or somethin'?" he asked quietly, but his deep voice filled the hallway.

"You – you – disconcert me a little," she managed. "I know what you and your brothers do." _Now, why would you say a thing like that?_ she chided herself.

Forrest took a step closer, halving the distance between them. She hadn't noticed before, but she noticed now that his hat was in his hand and she could see his whole face now. Unconsciously her eyes fell to his mouth, taking in the slight purse of his lips, the scruff of his close beard, the clench of his jaw. Those three things had starred in her personal fantasies as of late, though she had refused to admit to herself who the owner of those features really was. Her mind and body connected at the sight and the flesh between her legs twitched ever so slightly. She tore her eyes away and focused on the scar on his neck; his eyes were too intense to meet.

"You know what we do," he repeated quietly. "We own a gas station. That's what we do." His tone was ever so slightly mocking.

"You do other things," Francie said nervously. "What sort of gas station owner needs to carry around brass knuckles?"

A tiny ghost of a smile briefly tugged at one corner of Forrest's mouth before disappearing. "The sort that makes enough money doing so to not have to take a woman's hard-earned living." He produced the bills she'd shoved into his pocket and slowly reached for her hand. When his hand touched hers, a feeling like a jolt of electricity went through her and she jumped. His pewter eyes held hers for a moment, looking amused, and he gently placed the bills in her palm and closed her fingers over it. For a moment she could only look at his large hand closing around hers and notice that his skin was tan, much more tan than hers. She knew that if she were to allow herself to be in the sun, her skin would darken naturally and far exceed the pigment in his skin. And then she wondered if he would still like to hold her hand if that occurred. She shook herself out of her reverie and pulled her hand away, frowning up at him so hard she started to give herself a headache.

"Mr. Bondurant, I'm not sure what kind of girl you think I am. I was not raised to accept the charity of others; I was taught that if a debt was owed, you pay it." She reached out and tucked the money into his pocket again, taking care to ignore the brass knuckles. "Please do not insult me further by refusing my money again."

Forrest sighed quietly and stared down at his pocket. "Why do you have to be so stubborn?" he asked, and his tone suggested that it was a question to which he genuinely wanted to know the answer. "I ain't never had to work so goddamn hard to get anyone to keep my money."

"I'm not just anyone, sir," she said, feeling oddly offended. She started to turn toward her door. "Mr. Bondurant, as I said downstairs, you can throw my money in the gutter if you like. But you _will_ take it until I have paid my debt and I would prefer to hear no more about it."

"Yeah," Forrest said gruffly behind her. "All right."

Francie wasn't quite sure she liked the sound of that, but she shrugged to herself. As long as he knew not to try to give her the money back, she couldn't care less. In fact, she felt rather empowered that she had spoken so sharply to one of the dangerous Bondurant brothers.

"Miss Abellard."

Hearing her name – her assumed name – slip between his lips and rumble out of his throat like that, mingled with the fact that she could suddenly feel his breath on her neck, brought her up shortly and her previous sense of empowerment vanished, to be replaced with trepidation as she turned around to look up at him again. He was putting on his hat, and he was very close to her; this time, there was no consideration for her personal space and she swallowed, hating herself for the audible noise it made.

"Y-yes, Mr. Bondurant?" she stammered. The way this man could unnerve her with next to no effort was absolutely mind-boggling and rather concerned her. Furthermore, she didn't appreciate the way her body suddenly tingled and felt warm at hearing her name spoken in his deep, rich voice or feeling his own body warmth radiating off of him because he was so close.

He finished putting on his hat and then slowly lifted his head to look her in the eye while leaning toward her almost imperceptibly. Francie swallowed hard again, her eyes immediately zoning in on his lips; they were so close to her face.

"You've told me all about what kind of girl you are and what kind you ain't. Let me tell you what sort of man I am, and what sort I ain't. I don't generally go around offerin' my 'charity' as you call it to just anyone. And rarely do I extend the hand of help to perfect strangers. So before you go trottin' off on your high horse like you seem to be fixin' to do, do yourself a favor and understand I ain't the type of man who takes lightly to being given orders by a woman I've gone out of my way to help."

He sucked his teeth, studying her, not making any move to back off, and Francie wondered dimly if he was deliberately trying to intimidate her. She clenched her jaw and refused to look away from him as her heart thumped hard in her chest. After a moment, he took a step back and tugged on the brim of his hat.

"Ma'am."

She watched his retreating back as it disappeared down the hall and into the staircase, feeling thoroughly speechless.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Forrest fumed silently on the way back to the station that night.

He fumed while they entertained their customers in the evening. Since Jack couldn't cook worth a tinker's damn, Forrest cooked for them. And he fumed while he did it.

He fumed when he was finally able to shut himself in his office to work on the books, and he fumed as he stared out the window when he realized he couldn't concentrate at all.

_Charity?_

That little blue-eyed lady truly had some balls to call his generosity "charity". He _never_ extended himself the way he had to her to anyone outside his family. Even then, his brothers worked his nerves often enough to the point where he would have gladly cracked their heads together and left them in the dirt to figure out the rest on their own. _Charity?_

Moreover, he was annoyed that she had gotten him this riled up. Forrest prided himself on his reputation for being unflappable. Neither the sheriff's department, nor the Commonwealth Attorney, nor Special Deputy Charles Rakes had been able to shake him. Not even getting his throat slashed or plugged full of bullets had really shaken him. But some mysterious little woman, new to town with her pretty eyes and fancy clothes and haughty temperament, had managed to get his temper and his blood up.

A sudden memory of a few nights ago, when she'd run to her window at the sound of the truck, flashed through his brain for the millionth time, and he realized that hadn't been the _only _thing to get his blood up. Her long hair had been down, flowing past her shoulders, and she'd had on a little pale-colored satin nightie. He swallowed as he thought of the image. That nightie had been sheer enough to allow him to _just_ be able to make out her silhouette through it, and his eyes had nearly popped out of his skull when he'd seen the two taut rosebuds of her breasts standing up and out, almost as though they'd been taunting him. As it had then at the time, physically seeing it, his mouth watered now at the memory and he felt himself strain in his pants. That had sure been a sight to behold, and one as such that he hadn't seen in a very long time. In fact, Miss Francesca Abellard herself was a sight to behold, nightie or no. Seeing her tonight, he'd been pleased by the fact that her face was looking much better, with only the barest remnants of the violent marks left. The color in her cheeks had come back, as well as in her lips. Forrest had realized he'd been having a difficult time not staring at her mouth, so he'd had to look mostly at the ground. But he had noticed that, under healthier circumstances, they were a deep, fleshy pink color. And that she was prone to nibble at them absently from time to time.

He shook himself. What he couldn't make heads or tails of with that cantankerous woman was why she had to be so goddamn stubborn. And changeable – she couldn't seem to make up her mind between whether she wanted to be afraid of him or whether she wanted to sass him. He could tolerate one but not the other – and the other was fear.

For some reason, he couldn't stand the thought that she might be afraid of him.

Forrest generally worked the best off of other people's fear of him and his family; he found it to be a wildly successful tool in conducting an illegal business. It was how he and his brothers were the most successful bootleggers in the county over anyone else. It was how the rules seemed to apply to everybody else but them. It was how they got things done. You were friends with the Bondurants – or you weren't. And he didn't want anyone thinking that _not _being friends was a good idea.

Granted, he knew he could be a mite belligerent himself at times, and he knew that most of his dealings with Miss Abellard had featured him in this role. He didn't try to be that way, at least not with her, but she seemed to have an uncanny knack for working his nerves the way a dog worried a bone. She'd done a bang-up job of it tonight, too, calling his extremely rare kindness _charity_. She obviously knew nothing about him or his family _or _what they were capable of. He'd thought that her accidentally seeing his brass knuckles in his sweater pocket had startled her into meekness so he could do her _another _kindness by returning her money, but that had blown up in his face, hadn't it?

And that was another thing. Forrest clenched his jaw and shifted in his chair, on a mental roll now as he tapped his new penny pencil against the desk. Where in hell did she get off storming him like a football player going in for a tackle? It wasn't as though she were trying to leap into his arms – not that he wanted anything like that to occur, no sir – she was doing it out of sheer petulance and Forrest had no doubt that sort of temper she was in was the kind that would make her slap a man. Had she actually slapped him, in front of his brothers and a customer, well – he didn't know what he'd do, but it wouldn't have been pretty. And then for her to stretch out his sweater pocket to shove her money on him and _then_ act frightened at the sight of his brass knuckles, well, it was about what she deserved. You just didn't go around putting your hands on a man like that; it just wasn't done.

He paused momentarily in his mental ranting as he recalled the look of shock in her blue eyes as she had seen the little weapon in his pocket. She'd been damn near pressed up against him; they could have embraced had the situation not been so acrimonious. Her hand, her warm little hand, burning through his shirt, had been resting on his chest like she'd forgotten herself. He swallowed at the memory, then his face hardened. And when she'd remembered herself, she'd jerked away from like she'd been bitten by a rattlesnake, like he'd threatened her with the damn brass himself. He hadn't done anything at all except stay where he was and keep his goddamn hands to himself – it was _she_ who had failed to extend the same courtesy.

He wasn't sure what it was that made him follow her upstairs. He knew what he'd told the others – that he wasn't the type of man to accept money from a woman, and that they should wait for him while he gave it back to her. But it hadn't _just_ been that. He realized now that he'd wanted to be alone with her, away from the annoyingly amused glances of his brothers and their oftentimes dumb-assed comments.

He'd meant to be gentle with her, he really had, and at first it seemed that maybe things would go that way – gently. But then she'd gotten on her goddamn high horse again, talking of things like charity and telling him what he would and wouldn't do and that she didn't give a damn what he did with her money and she'd gotten his temper up again. He hadn't meant to intimidate her, but he could tell he had, for all her bravery. To her credit, though, she had looked him straight in the eye, even if she was just a little thing and he all but towered over her. He was sure he'd made his point by the look on her face when he was through talking. And sooner or later, she'd find out just what he _had_ done with her money – he'd given it to her landlord to pay for her next four weeks of board. He allowed a small half-smile to cross his face when he pictured her anger when she finally found out _that_ little bit of information. After all, she _had _said she didn't care what he did with it as long as he took it, hadn't she?

But when he leaned back in his chair and thought back over that encounter again, the sweetness and smugness of his little victory, his annoyance at her stubbornness, his utter confusion at her overall character, all of it receded as he could think of nothing but the way she looked, and smelled, and how soft her little hand had been when he'd taken it into his own. Between those eyes of hers and her mouth, he knew he'd be in for another sleepless night, as had been the case since he'd seen her in the window. He shut his eyes, conjuring the image again. In his mind's eye and with his own imaginary twist, the wind came through and blew one of those tiny straps off her shoulder, pulling it down and exposing just the top of one of those perky, rounded breasts – just enough to see the top and tip of one of those hard little rosebuds at the center, nothing more. And instead of ducking behind the curtain like a frightened child, she would smile shyly, slowly pulling it back into place…before beckoning to him.

Forrest shook his head and opened his eyes, chiding himself as he looked down at his books. He was forgetting himself, forgetting what needed to be done. He willed the stupid bastard in his trousers to lie down and let him be, reminding it, and himself, that women were nothing but heartache and trouble.

As he went back to his figures, he couldn't help but think that with as much thinking about Miss Abellard as he'd been doing lately, he'd been thinking less and less of Maggie. In fact, he was surprised to find that it took him much longer to picture Maggie's face in his mind lately, and it had to be within a specific context, whereas with Miss Abellard, he was able to pull her face to memory immediately.

_Probably 'cause you just seen her, you dumb fuck_, he chided himself, annoyed that he was expending so much energy on someone who probably never even gave him a single thought. Then he told himself he didn't care _what_ she thought about anyway, and hoped it wasn't him, and that her thoughts were none of his concern or interest.

He nodded sternly to himself and turned back to his work, before he realized that he'd once again broken his pencil during his daydream.

:O:O:O:

Francie was in dire straits.

She sat at her small table in the kitchen area of her room, dressed in just her nightie, with a pencil and a scrap of paper, going over her figures again and again, trying to find some small loophole in her budget that she could take money from. She desperately needed new underwear.

However, after her last encounter with that _arrogant_ Forrest Bondurant, she'd be damned if she'd dip into what she had set aside for him after her boarding fee. She wanted to pay him back as fast as possible, and every two weeks she'd deliver him another ten dollars. And she would take great pride in slapping it down in front of him and walking away without a word. So borrowing from what she had set aside for him was absolutely out of the question.

But she just had nothing left when all was said and done. She sighed and threw her pencil down. She glanced at the clock and saw that she needed to hurry if she was going to make it to Mrs. Everett's in time. She dressed quickly and regretted having to miss breakfast, but she would certainly be late if she stopped to feed herself.

The morning was a busy one, with lots of tailoring and mending to do. Shortly before lunch, Francie approached Mrs. Everett, who was finishing up the wedding dress she'd started a few days ago.

"Mrs. Everett, I need to ask you something," Francie said hesitantly.

Mrs. Everett barely looked up. "Yes, dear?"

"I was wondering if you knew –" Francie paused delicately. "That is, it appears that I'm in need of some new –" She stopped. How did one ask for something like this?

Mrs. Everett finally looked up, peering at her over the top of her spectacles. "Is this a woman-centered question, my dear?" she asked. "You look rather uncomfortable." She glanced around, gesturing to the womanly shaped dress mannequins and herself. "It's just all of us girls here, darling."

Francie sighed out a laugh. She felt extremely silly. "Do you know where in this town I could buy some knickers?" she asked bluntly. "All of mine are just threadbare, worn down."

Mrs. Everett laughed. "I suppose drawers would be rather important. Well, of course I could make you some, but that would take some time that you may not have." She paused, pursing her lips in thought. "You could always go to the general store. Mrs. Judith Allen owns the place."

"The general store?" Francie repeated. She bit her lip. She could go and see what they would cost, and then figure something out. Perhaps she would have to dig into the money she saved from each pay day for Forrest to buy some new underwear. The thought made her cringe, but she just saw no way around it.

Over her lunch break, when she would normally head back to the boarding house to eat, she went to the general store instead, realizing as she went that she had now skipped _two _meals that day.

She walked up the wooden steps of the store and glanced around. The store was surprisingly empty, but then again, most folks seemed to go home for lunch during the day as no one really had too much money to eat out. It was just her luck, anyway – she really didn't want to ask any questions about lingerie in front of anyone else.

"Mrs. Allen?" she called tentatively. There was no response, so she glanced around the store. There were so many things to look at, so many things of interest. Toilet waters, pots of rouge, pretty brushes and mirrors. Her eyes sparkled as they took in the little trinkets and things so dear to a lady's heart.

"Someone call me?" came a delayed reply. Francie stuck her head from around a shelf and saw a middle-aged woman walk into the store from a back room. Francie waved to get her attention as she stepped around the shelf she was looking at.

"I did," she said. "Hello. I'm Francesca Abellard. I work at Mrs. Everett's shop."

"Uh-huh," the woman said absently. "Yes, I heard Mrs. Everett had gotten a new gal. What can I do for you today?"

"Well, I was looking for some, um, drawers," Francie said, getting it out easier this time but still blushing deeply. "I moved here recently and I only brought three pairs with me. The constant washing has made them rather tattered now."

"Shame," the lady replied, shaking her head. "Well, I do have quite a few sets. This way." She led Francie to a special encased area and removed a few sets of lingerie.

"How much?" Francie asked.

"Twenty-five cents," Mrs. Allen replied. Francie bit her lip and considered it. It wasn't an unfair price, but it wasn't free, which meant it was too expensive for her right now.

"All right. Thank you." She turned to go.

"Not interested?" Mrs. Allen called. "I can get other colors and styles, you know."

"It's not that," Francie said with a smile. "I have to go home and do some budgeting. My money is generally quite tight, and I have to figure out where I can make some cuts."

"Mrs. Everett not paying you enough?" Mrs. Allen asked bluntly.

Francie blinked in surprise at the bold question. "She pays me exactly what she can afford," she said loyally.

"You want to make some extra money?" Mrs. Allen tilted her head. "I could use a pretty gal like you."

"Oh, I appreciate the offer, but I don't think Mrs. Everett would be willing to let me go," Francie said politely.

Mrs. Allen shook her head. "Not for the store. At night."

"Beg pardon?" Francie was confused.

Mrs. Allen smiled. "You won't need to quit your job with Mrs. Everett. I wouldn't require your assistance until nightfall. A few times a week."

"What's the work?" Francie asked.

"Cocktail waitress," Mrs. Allen said, still smiling. "I'll be frank with you, Miss, uh –?"

"Abellard," Francie supplied, her confusion mounting.

"Miss Abellard. By now I'm sure you've come to know that Franklin County is a wet one. Well, I run me a juke joint in the basement of this store several nights a week. Folks come to drink and dance, and I let 'em 'cause they pay me well to do it." She smiled again.

Francie's eyes widened. An honest-to-goodness juke joint in this sleepy little town? Mrs. Allen must have been very good at keeping things quiet.

"Folks come from neighboring counties where the sheriff's departments are a little stricter than ours," Mrs. Allen went on. "Hell, sometimes the sheriff and his deputies come to unwind in my place. But I pour the booze. You would serve it."

"Serve it?" Francie echoed.

"Yes. Take it to the customers, be a little flirty with them. They're mostly men, you see. In the right dress, you could make quite a bit in tips there, don't you know."

"Tips?" Francie felt like a dolt for repeating everything Mrs. Allen was saying, but she couldn't remember another time she'd felt so confused.

"I'll pay you a little wage for the hours, and then sometimes the menfolk will give you a little extra," Mrs. Allen explained patiently. "Just for servin' it up to them. You've got a pretty face and pretty eyes and a pretty figure, and plenty of men will give you a little money just for lookin' like you do." She held up a finger. "Now, sometimes the men can get a bit unruly once they've been in their cups for a while, or can't hold their liquor. You might get touched or grabbed. If'n that happens, you come find me. All right?"

Francie's head was swimming. An extra job with the capabilities to make extra, much-needed money. In addition to buying her basic necessities, she could pay off Forrest faster _and _save up that much faster for a ticket north – and a good ticket on a nice train.

Mrs. Allen looked at her appraisingly. "Tell you what, darlin'. Why don't you get on back to the shop and think things over. You come find me tomorrow and tell me what you think. I'd need you to start tomorrow night."

Francie nodded mechanically and turned to leave. After a few paces, she stopped, and turned around. Mrs. Allen was still standing behind the counter, her arms folded, a smile on her face.

"I don't need to think it over," Francie blurted out. She marched back toward the counter and held out her hand. "I accept the job."

Mrs. Allen narrowed her eyes at Francie. "You're quiet, I can tell, maybe a little innocent, but I think you'll do just fine." She reached out and gave Francie's hand a firm shake. "You come by and see me tomorrow evening after you've had your supper." Francie nodded and turned to leave. "Oh, one more thing, Miss Abellard."

Francie turned expectantly. Mrs. Allen winked at her.

"Make sure you wear somethin' low cut if you really want to bring home the tips." She turned and walked into the back room again, her laughter floating out into the store.

Francie hurried for the door, nervousness clawing at her gut, and mingling with a bit of excitement.

_What have you just done?_ she wondered.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Forrest drove into town with Jack the next afternoon during lunchtime, leaving Howard at the station to mind the customers. Though his older brother almost always began imbibing as soon as the sun rose in the morning, he knew how to handle the customers of both the station and the booze business. At any rate, Forrest trusted him far more than Jack to be in charge.

They were heading to the general store for a quick meeting with Mrs. Judith Allen, or Miz Judy, as almost everyone around town called her. It was well-known that she ran a juke joint out of the basement of her store every Thursday through Saturday night. It catered to mostly black workers, both local and non-local, but color had never been as big an issue here in Franklin as it seemed to be in the rest of the South. It wasn't uncommon to see as many white faces as black, and vice versa, patronizing Miz Judy's establishment. As many folks in town reasoned, a good time was a good time, especially during such a time of national economic uproar and worry. Folks tended to care less these days about things that might have been important some years ago. Forrest knew he, for one, certainly did but then again, things like race had never been particularly important to him. He personally didn't give a tinker's damn _what _color a person's skin was, so long as they were decent.

"Forrest, look!"

Jack's loudly excited voice broke into Forrest's reverie and he glanced over at his younger brother. Jack was pointing out Forrest's window and smiling. Then, he waved.

"It's Miss Francie," Jack said, and Forrest slowly turned his head to look. Sure enough, strolling along the road, likely headed to the boarding house to take her own lunch, was Miss Francesca Abellard. Forrest's eyes took in the form-fitting, short-sleeved cardigan that hugged both her nicely formed bosom and her small waist, and the long black skirt underneath. It was fitted as well, and formed to her nicely curved backside in such a way as to make Forrest need to yank out the collar of his shirt a bit, suddenly feeling like it was strangling him.

"Miss Francie!" Jack called, leaning practically into Forrest's lap in his excitement to call out to the young lady. "It's me, Jack!"

Miss Abellard glanced over and her face managed to take on dual expressions. It was somehow both bright and sullen as she took in both the brothers at the same time; Forrest knew the sullen expression was directed at him and it stirred annoyance in his belly.

"Hi there, Jack," Miss Abellard called back, returning Jack's wave. She dropped her hand and looked at Forrest. "Mr. Bondurant," she added formally, tilting her nose ever so slightly into the air, haughtiness radiating off of her and flowing across the dirt road and into his vehicle. Forrest looked at the way her nose was stuck up and suddenly had a little desire to punch her in it.

When he didn't verbally respond, she cut her eyes toward him, finding him staring hard at her. He held her gaze for a beat, then tugged the brim of his hat slightly before gunning the engine and accelerating toward the general store. He glanced into his side mirror to watch her walk, taking in the slight sway of her hips and the way her dainty little feet crossed over each other with each step. He started to experience that strangling feeling again and tugged at his collar.

"That sure is one purdy gal, huh, Forrest?" Jack said happily.

"I'm sure Miss Minnix would be delighted to hear you say so," Forrest said grumpily, his eyes flicking back to the side mirror again. He watched at Miss Abellard turned to enter the boarding house and disappeared.

"Aw, I don't mean nothin' by it," Jack said, waving him off. "Bertha knows she's the only gal for me. 'Sides, I think you's the one that fancies Miss Abellard, anyway!"

Forrest slowly turned his eyes toward his baby brother and fixed him with a murderous stare. "How about you shut that trap of yours for five minutes so we can g'on in here and talk business with Miz Judy?"

Instead of humbling Jack, as he expected, his admonishment only made him grin wider, as though he understood the _real_ source of his grumpiness. "Sure, big brother. Whatever you say. Let's go."

They exited the truck and walked up the wooden steps to the front porch of the store. It was mainly empty, as Miz Judy had promised them it would be. Forrest nudged Jack and nodded, and Jack cleared his throat.

"Miz Judy?" he called. "It's us, Forrest and Jack Bondurant come to see ya."

"Just a minute, boys," came her response from the backroom of the store. A moment later she appeared, smiling warmly at them. "Well, my little Bondurant boys. How are you? Where's Howard?"

Forrest accepted her kiss of greeting on his cheek, smirking inwardly at how she all but slobbered on Jack and pinched his cheeks and made an enormous fuss over his baby brother, much to Jack's discontentment.

"He's mindin' the station, ma'am," Forrest replied.

"Oh. Well, you give him my love, you hear?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"All right." She folded her arms. "So, how much are we talkin'?"

"However much you need," Forrest said. "Eighteen jars to a case and we got plenty of cases. Five dollars."

Miz Judy narrowed her shrewd eyes. "Other 'leggers in town tell me I can have their product for four dollars a case."

"Yeah, if you like drinkin' piss," Jack said with a frown. "Everybody knows we make the finest 'shine and crazy apple."

"It is good," Miz Judy mused. "It sure is. I just ain't sure if it's four-dollars-a-case good."

"Three-fifty," Forrest said quietly. He really would have preferred the four dollars, of course, but three-fifty was still a good price and he'd be damned if Miz Judy wasn't a fine haggler.

"Sold," she said, her eyes twinkling. "And I'll take ten cases. That ought to see me through the weekend." She smiled at the two men mischievously. "'Course, I up-sell quite a bit per jar, don't you know."

"Wouldn't expect anything less from a lady fine as you," Forrest said. "Ten cases it is. When?"

"Bring it tonight around ten o'clock, wouldja?" Miz Judy said. "I've got about twenty jars of corn left but Thursday always seems to be a rowdy night, so I wouldn't be surprised a'tall if I sold out of them jars in an hour or so."

Forrest nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Ten cases at ten o'clock. See you then."

"All right. Let me draft you a check before you scoot on out of here, Forrest." Miz Judy moved behind her counter to reach for her ledger. Forrest waved her off.

"Pay me tonight," he said. "No hurry."

She smiled. "Well, ain't you a sweet one. Tonight it is. Just come on through the back downstairs – you know the way. I'll meet you down there at ten or a little after, dependin' on how busy we are. If I ain't here just start unloadin'."

"Yes, ma'am," Forrest said with a nod.

"Swell. Goodbye, boys."

:O:O:O:

_New Orleans_

The detective looked across the parlor he was sitting in at a very well put-together middle aged woman. In her younger days, he suspected she'd been a great beauty, with her blonde hair and green eyes. But now, he could tell that booze, illegal though it was, had done its work, and her face was puffy, lined, weathered.

He also reckoned that having her only son laid up in the hospital with a bullet in his chest wasn't helping her much, either.

"Ma'am," he said gently. "We picked up a couple of youths in from Atlanta. Tried to rob a diner. When the cops found them, they had a big bag of money and some valuables on them." He pulled a large gold watch from his pocket, but one of many high-value items the police had found in the bag, and held it out to her. "I reckon this might look familiar, particularly the inscription on the back."

Mrs. Lattimore's eyes widened as she took in the watch, and when she flipped it over and read the back, she covered her mouth.

"This is my late husband's watch," she said emphatically. "Oh, my – Detective Rollins. You've found our valuables." She swallowed hard. "Did you find _her?_"

Detective Rollins shook his head. "No, ma'am, regretfully we did not. However, we turned up a bit of interesting evidence that was in the same bag as your jewelry and your money. A one-way ticket to Roanoke, Virginia."

"R-roanoke?" Mrs. Lattimore stuttered. "To my knowledge, all her family comes from New Orleans. I don't believe that she had any kin in Virginia." She let out a bitter laugh. "Then again, I had no idea that my daughter-in-law-to-be was colored, either."

"I suspect she was just fleein' the city, ma'am," Detective Rollins said. "At any rate, I'm goin' to be headin' out that way, see if I can't pick up the little sweetheart's trail." He rose and shook her hand. "Your money and valuables will be returned to you in no time, as well."

"Just find her, Detective," Mrs. Lattimore said urgently, and her hand began to squeeze down tight around his. An angry gleam came into her eyes. "You find her and you bring her back here. I'll show her what happens to folks who cross the Lattimores. I will! She'll hang. She'll _hang!_"

Detective Rollins delicately extracted his hand from hers, then flexed his aching fingers. "Yes, ma'am. I'll find her, and we'll see what the courts have to say about her punishment." He chose his words carefully, not wanting to rile her further but also needing to emphasize the fact that this was a case for the judicial system, not personal vengeance.

Mrs. Lattimore rose, her red-rimmed eyes flaring with incensed fury. "You just find her, Detective. Find that little bitch."

Detective Rollins nodded, then bid her goodbye and left the house. He had a train to catch.

:O:O:O:

Francie stood in front of the mirror in her small bathroom and looked at herself that evening. She added a touch of rouge to her cheeks, and pulled the cap off a brand-new tube of lipstick. She had acquired both items, as well as three new sets of underwear, on credit from Mrs. Allen, who had insisted that Francie call her Miz Judy like everyone else. Francie wasn't quite accustomed to such a casual, informal way of speaking but tried to acquiesce her new boss.

She twisted up the lipstick bullet and smoothed it across her lips. She had never been able to wear the fashionable bright red color that other women wore; her lips were too full for such a loud color and every time she had tried to wear it in the past, Thomas had laughed at her and told her that her mouth looked like a fat red blob sitting on the lower half of her face. The color she had gotten at Mrs. Allen's – _Miz Judy_, she reminded herself – was a sheer, dark rosy pink color with a very slight sheen to it, and it complemented her complexion very nicely. She added a bit of kohl around her eyes and a bit of mascara, then wound her long hair neatly up into a knot. She was aware that her hair was gradually becoming less and less straight these days; it had been over a month since her last treatment. She didn't know what she would do about it, other than continue to wear it up. She was quite certain there were no places around where she could go and have a straightening treatment done – that was typically a big-city venture.

She exited the bathroom once her makeup and hair was complete and looked hesitantly at the dress on her bed. She had taken one of her old dresses, grabbed in her haste to leave the house in New Orleans, and had worked on it throughout the day at Mrs. Everett's shop. She had not brought anything with her that was appropriate for her new job, so she had selected a dress that had always clung nicely to her shape, despite its modest neckline and sleeves. It was a pale pink color and the hem was uneven, reaching her shins. She had cut the sleeves off and created a much lower neckline as well as cutting out the back. She'd stitched up the raw edges, and then had used a bit of Chantilly lace, extra that Mrs. Everett had given her, to line the neckline, adding extra flounce and drawing the eye to her bosom. What she hadn't counted on, after trying the dress on, was how embarrassingly low the neckline actually was. It wasn't exactly _indecent_, but it revealed plenty of cleavage and she had never been so exposed before.

But, she sighed, Miz Judy had instructed her to wear something low-cut to enhance the amount of tips she might earn, and if nothing else, she knew the juke joint would get hot, as Miz Judy told her it would, so allowing more of her skin to be uncovered might help keep her cool. She slipped the dress on and stepped into a pair of nude colored pumps with cutouts on the sides and ankle straps. They had been one of her favorite pairs of shoes. For a moment she thought wistfully of the enormous shoe collection she had left behind in New Orleans, then shook herself. Her life was certainly worth more than shoes.

As an afterthought, she snatched a cardigan to cover herself with before she left her room; it would never do to run into the Macreadys' – or anyone she personally knew – with her bosom out.

Miz Judy had asked her to arrive between supper and nine o'clock, so Francie decided that eight o'clock was a good time to arrive. The store was a ten minute walk from the boarding house, so Francie strolled along, enjoying the breeze in the twilight air. When she reached the store, she discovered the front door was locked. She knocked on it lightly, and waited.

"My, _my."_

Francie whirled around at the sound of the voice, and felt apprehension tighten her stomach. Two men lingered on the dirt road in front of the porch, one black and one white, and leered at her.

The white man licked his lips, eyeing her. Despite her bosom being covered by her sweater, Francie still felt exposed in the clingy dress, and swallowed, wrapping the cardigan around herself more tightly.

"Why don't come on with us, darlin'?" the man asked with a toothy smile. "We could show you real fine time."

"No, thank you," Francie replied in a low voice. "I'm here to see Miz Judy."

"Miz Judy's won't be openin' for another hour," the man informed her. "We can show you real fine time sooner'n that, then come on back here for a drink and a dance. What do you say?"

"I say no," Francie replied bluntly. "Now, let me be."

"That's not very friendly of you," the man said, an edge suddenly in his voice. He began to mount the stairs toward her. "In fact, I reckon you're bein' downright rude."

Francie backed up, feeling panic as he neared. She looked around frantically, seeing no one else on the road out by the store. She turned and pounded hard on the door. "Miz Judy!" she cried, looking urgently over her shoulder. "Miz Judy! Open the door, please!"

The man had stopped in his tracks and began to make gestures to tell her to quiet down, as though he were afraid someone else would hear. The door to the store opened, and Miz Judy appeared, looking taken aback.

"What is it, child?" she exclaimed, grasping Francie by the arms. Her gaze darkened as she noticed the two men behind her. "Ben! Rufus! Did you frighten this poor girl?"

"Ah, no, ma'am," the man who Francie assumed was Ben said. "We's just tryin' to be friendly, is all."

Miz Judy pushed Francie into the store behind her and wagged a finger threateningly at him. "Listen to me, you piece of white trash," she said gruffly. "You keep away from this girl, ya hear? You can come to the juke, but you best let her be. She's my new girl, and I don't want her bothered! You understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," Ben said reluctantly. "But, Miz Judy, why you gotta hire such pretty gals? Now, that's like danglin' a jar of that fine corn you get in front of a thirsty man and tellin' him he can look but not touch!"

"Get off my porch, Ben," Miz Judy said, annoyed. "And you leave this child alone."

Despite her alarm, Francie wanted to laugh at the notion of being referred to as a child. Miz Judy turned and walked into the store, shaking her head. She shut the door and locked it again, then looked at Francie.

"I'm sorry, dear," she said. "Those two scalawags must have thought you were somethin' to eat. There's not too many pretty young things who ain't married walkin' around this town." She squinted. "They hurt you?"

"No, ma'am," Francie replied. "Just frightened me, that's all."

"Well, let's have a look at you," Miz Judy said, studying her appraisingly. "Take the sweater off."

Reluctantly, Francie unwrapped the sweater from around her body. Miz Judy nodded approvingly. "That's just what I had in mind," she said with a brisk nod. "Once word about my new gal gets out, I'll get all the business I can stand." She smiled. "Well, come on. I'll take you downstairs and show you the place. You ever tasted corn before?"

"Just once, ma'am, and that was for a medical reason."

"Didja like it?"

Francie remembered the odor of the alcohol and the sharp taste and wrinkled her nose. "No, ma'am."

"You will," Miz Judy laughed. "Oh, you will."

:O:O:O:

Francie had been to parties before in her life, but an underground party at a juke joint, a speakeasy, was an entirely different experience.

At first she'd been dazed – there'd been so many people so fast, crowding the tables. There was alcohol _everywhere_, more alcohol she'd seen in her whole life, and it didn't take long for gambling games of cards and dice to start. A four-man band took up one corner, and began playing loud, ruckus music – blues, rag, boogie. Anything to incite the crowd to dance.

And dance they did.

Francie understood why the juke was in the in-ground basement of the store – it contained all the noise.

Her first attempts at serving were sloppy – she'd been overwhelmed with people's demands and had struggled to keep up. Miz Judy poured expertly and loaded serving trays for Francie. It took Francie a dozen attempts before she stopped sloshing alcohol all over herself and sometimes, the customers – once, she had even managed to upend a whole jar accidentally on a young man. Fortunately, he only laughed, having already consumed a whole jar himself, but Francie had been humiliated. Her dress was splotched with liquor and she knew she reeked of it.

But Miz Judy had been right about the tips – all of the men, young, old, and in-between, had slid her a few extra coins here and there, admiring her blatantly and trying to flirt with her. She spotted Ben and Ruckus in one corner, eyeing her. She turned her nose up at them; if they wanted a drink, they could get it themselves.

By the time the first hour had passed, Francie realized she was almost enjoying herself. The lively song that the band was playing currently reminded her so much of the music of New Orleans. For a moment, she stood in place and just listened, and wanted to dance. She swayed in time, a smile on her face.

"Hey there, darlin'."

Francie turned and felt shock go through her system – Sheriff Potts and Deputy Branson were standing behind her, surveying the crowd. Francie swallowed, feeling panic – why were they here? Was Miz Judy in trouble? Worse yet – did they know the truth about her? _All _of the truths about her?

"Can we get a couple crazy apples?" Sheriff Potts asked, shocking her further. "Have Miz Judy start our tab." He winked and held out a quarter to her and Francie balked. A whole quarter? "For your troubles there, sweetcheeks."

"Uh, yes, sir," Francie managed, accepting the quarter. "Two crazy apples coming right up." She wound her way through the tables to the bar, telling Miz Judy of the two new guests and their orders. Miz Judy glanced over Francie's shoulder and smiled and waved, then poured their drinks.

"Two of my best customers," she told Francie with a wink. "Treat 'em will." She placed the glasses on Francie's tray and glanced at the clock on the wall. "Tell 'em to keep an eye on things for us when you go over there, will ya? I need you to come to the back with me when you're done with them."

Francie nodded and obediently brought the tray to the sheriff and the deputy, ignoring the calls for her attention the way Miz Judy had told her she would sometimes need to. She served their drinks and relayed the message, at which they nodded, and Francie moved back toward the bar.

"Come on this way," Miz Judy said. "I want you to observe what I'm doin' so's you know what to do if'n ever I ain't here."

Francie didn't at all like the idea of handling the place alone, by herself, but she merely nodded and walked after the woman, curious as to what exactly she'd be observing.

Out of the main room, where the juke was, was a short hallway that led to a large storage area and a back door. The hallway was cool and Francie was grateful for the chill on her sweaty skin. She noticed that the storage room was lit and that the back door was open. She could hear men's voices and what sound like glass rattling. When they entered the room she saw a few cases stacked up.

"Inventory delivery," Miz Judy said with a smile. "I work with some bootleggers, obviously, and they bring me my stock."

"Bootleggers?" Francie echoed. Suspicion gnawed at her. She knew that there were _several_ bootleggers in town, but for some reason, she felt she needed to know precisely _which_ bootleggers Miz Judy worked with. "There's so many around town, it seems."

The woman nodded. "Yep. I've worked with a few, but my favorites have always been the –"

"Miss _Francie?"_

Francie turned at the sound of her name, and her stomach dropped to floor. It was Jack.

He had a look of incredulous excitement on his face at the sight of her, as he held onto a large case of jars. His hazel eyes nearly popped out of his skull when they drifted downward and he quickly averted them to her face, his ruddy cheeks reddening. Francie felt her own blush blossoming on her cheeks and prayed that it was just Jack delivering this load.

"Hello, Jack," she said weakly. "How are you tonight?"

"Me?" he squeaked, then cleared his throat. "Oh, um. I'm fine, Miss Francie, thank you. But – but what are _you_ doin' here?"

"This is my new gal," Miz Judy said. "You two know each other?"

"She – she's kind of a friend to the family," Jack spoke up when Francie remained silent, as she struggled for an answer to the question.

"Speaking of family, where are those brothers of yours?" Miz Judy said, holding up a check she'd written out. "I need to pay Forrest."

Francie's heart sank to join her stomach at Jack's reply. "Yeah, he's outside. He's helpin' Howard unload the rest of the cases."

Miz Judy nodded and moved to go outside to bring Forrest the check. Jack set his case down carefully and looked at Francie again. She appreciated that he made sure to keep his eyes on her face.

"When did you start workin' here, Miss Francie?" he asked. "This – this ain't really no kinda place for a lady like you."

"I just started tonight," Francie replied, trying to subtly fold her arms across her chest. When she realized that all the action did was to emphasize her cleavage even more, she gave up and dropped her arms. "I – I need the extra money."

"And I do believe she's makin' a boatload, in tips at least!" Miz Judy announced as she walked back in and playfully slapped Jack lightly on his rear. "She's my prettiest gal yet, don't you think, Jack?"

"I could agree," Jack said, his smile kind but a little mystified.

"Oh, my suds and body!" a booming voice drew Francie's attention the door yet again. Howard walked in, holding yet another case. "I can't believe my goddamn eyes. Miss Francesca, you are a vision. That's a nice dress you got on there." He eyed her bosom most obviously and Francie shrank back. Why, oh _why_, did the Bondurants have to be the most successful bootleggers in this town? They were everywhere, all the time.

"Hello, Howard," she replied. "Um – thank you."

"Want to tell me what a nice little lady like yourself is doin' in a place like this?" Howard fixed her with a mockingly stern smile and put his hands on his hips. Francie bit the inside of her cheek. Was everyone going to be asking her that?

"She needs the extra money, she said," Jack supplied, yet again coming to her rescue. "Let her be, Howard. And stop – stop starin', for Christ's sake."

"Listen, baby brother, just 'cause _you _don't know what to do with a pair o' ripe melons in your face don't mean nothin' else 'sides the fact that you need to grow some hair on your balls," Howard replied calmly, and Francie wanted to weep with embarrassment.

Jack glowered at his eldest brother. "Fuck you, Howard," he muttered.

"You two jackasses gonna leave me to do all the rest of the work, or what," a deep voice, rich and gruff with cigar smoke, floated into the storage room, immediately preceding a unique scent that simultaneously alerted Francie's senses and gave away the speaker's identity. _As though his voice had not already done so._

Forrest ambled into the room, holding two cases stacked together, his hat low on his face as he carefully watched the ground to make sure he didn't trip over anything and drop his heavy load. Francie thought about taking the opportunity to run out of the room before he saw her, but there was no way to do so without alarming everyone. Besides, even if she had, he would still hear of it from his brothers.

So, she did nothing but stand in place and watch as he set the cases down gently on the ground and straightened up, lifting his face to look at them. His eyes found her immediately and he stared at her hard. Francie was aware that Miz Judy was speaking to Howard and Jack but though the woman stood right next to her, the words coming out of her mouth were literally gibberish to Francie's ears. She felt strange waves of tingling hot and cold running through her under Forrest's stare. He stared at her face for a long time, and then his eyes slipped lower. He took in her dress in one slow, sweeping, head-to-toe glance and then moved back to her face. She couldn't tell what the expression on his face was, but she saw the way his jaw clenched.

"…you boys take this booze up front for an old woman?" Miz Judy was saying. "We got a lot of thirsty customers out there."

"Yes, ma'am, I'm one of 'em," Howard said. He shoved at Jack's shoulder. "C'mon. Take two cases at a time, Jack, Jesus. We ain't got all night for you to baby your delicate hands."

"Fu –"

"Just go." Howard glanced back at Forrest, seeing his gaze steadily locked on Francie, and glanced at Francie, seeing her gaze fearfully locked on Forrest, and he cleared his throat and grinned. "All right. Y'all be good now. Forrest, maybe you can help me with one or two of these when you get your shit together, there."

Forrest spared Howard a glance, and it was enough to make the eldest brother laugh and grab a couple of cases, following his youngest brother back to the front.

"Drinks won't pour or serve themselves," Miz Judy said lightly, unaware of the silent tension in the room. "C'mon, my dear."

Francie had never been so grateful for an interruption and she immediately turned to follow Miz Judy. "Yes, ma'am."

She had not taken even three steps when a rough, calloused hand caught her elbow and tugged firmly. "She'll be along in a moment, Miz Judy," Forrest's velvety voice said calmly. "I just need a word with her right quick, if you don't mind."

"Don't keep her too long, now, ya hear? She's mighty popular." Miz Judy gave him a wink and disappeared down the hall.

Francie was surprised to find that she felt quite a bit like a naughty child who'd been caught misbehaving, and then grew irritated that Forrest had made her feel this way. She was embarrassed at the brothers knowing she worked here, but Forrest had no right to sit in judgment on her – after all, _he _was the bootlegger. She simply served it.

So it was with a defiantly clenched jaw and a slightly haughty air that she turned to look up at him. She still couldn't identify the look in his eyes – at first they'd been surprised to see her, then irritated, then angry – then something else she couldn't identify, but whatever it was had made his eyes darken. No man had ever looked at her like that, and it was unnerving.

She pursed her lips, willing her nerve to come back. "Yes, Mr. Bondurant?" she asked with false politeness. "What can I do for you?"

He blinked slowly, his eyes narrowing as they moved over her face. He advanced on her and she backed up accordingly, until her back hit the concrete wall of one side of the storage room. He leaned down into her face.

"What," he began, his voice low and calm, "in the _fuck-hell _are you doing workin' in a place like this?"

She was taken aback by his vulgarity. "Mr. Bondurant," she scolded. "I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head –"

"I'll thank you to cut the bullshit," he replied. "You know what kinda place this is? This ain't no place for you. Especially not while you're in some goddamn dress cut down to your navel." His eyes raked down her torso and Francie had that same strange feeling of being undressed under his gaze.

"Mr. Bondurant," she said, outraged at his forwardness. "I believe it is _none_ of your business where I choose to seek employment, or what I choose to wear while doing it."

"Be that as it may," he said, and his calmness and arrogance maddened her. "It still don't change the fact that you don't belong here."

"I believe Mrs. Allen would disagree with you," Francie said formally, and tried to move around him. He leaned to cut her off, looking intently into her face.

"You doin' this because of the other night?" he asked. "You would let yourself work in a dangerous place because you're so goddamn proud and refuse to accept any _charity_ because that ain't the way you were _raised?_" His tone was slightly mocking, and it made her angry. She looked down, past his elbow, and bit her lip, refusing to answer.

"I asked you a question, Miss Abellard," he said lightly. She jumped when his fingers gently gripped her chin, tilting her head up to look at him again.

"If it's safe enough for Miz Judy, it's safe enough for me," she replied stubbornly, trying to jerk her head away.

"Miz Judy ain't scared of nothin' or nobody, and she keeps six rifles in this store at all times," Forrest said gruffly. "Bet she didn't tell you she's killed at least three dumb sons of bitches that tried to rob this place, did she? _You_ ever kill a man, Francesca?"

She was debating on how to answer that question when she became completely distracted at hearing him utter her first name for the first time. He said it pointedly, emphasizing each syllable as though to imply he said it on purpose, to get her attention.

The truth of the answer she wanted to give him died on her tongue, but as she met his stare, he seemed to see something in her eyes that made him pause and tilt his head. His eyes shifted between hers rapidly, as if he were desperately trying to read something in them.

"What is your story?" he murmured, almost to himself, a frown creasing his brow.

Francie realized she desperately wanted to tell him, to talk to him about what she'd done and why, because she felt intuitively he was the only person who would ever really understand. She also realized he was close enough that she could feel his breath on her lips. She placed both hands on his chest and shoved. The push wasn't hard enough to send him reeling back, like she'd hoped for, but he got the message and backed up a few steps on his own.

"My story is that I don't have enough money for the things I need, thanks to you butting into my life and disrupting my plans," she said loudly, astonishing herself with her own rudeness. She knew how wrong she was the instant the words came into her mouth, but she said them anyway, because if she didn't, she would have blurted out the truth. "And now, on account of you and your – your – _arrogant nosiness_, I have to stay here until I not only pay you back but also save up money for a ticket out of here. And while I'm grateful for my job with Mrs. Everett, it's simply not enough to get by and so, this is what I have to do to survive!"

She felt she would burst into tears if she stayed another moment, so she whirled on her heel and hurried down the hallway, desperate to get back to the heat and distraction of her new employment.

_I hate him_, she thought angrily with each step. She hated his arrogance, the way he acted so imperious toward everyone around him. She hated the way he seemed to feel responsible for her and how he looked at her.

Moreover, she hated the way her hands shook and her heart sped up when he got close to her, not out of fear, but of something else. Most of all, she hated the way she'd been suddenly overcome with a horrible desire to grab him by the front of his shirt and haul him in close so she could finally taste the lips that tormented her day and night.

_Never_, she thought, angry at herself now. _Never!_


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Despite Francie's thorough irritation and annoyance, both with Forrest and herself, the rest of the night passed quickly. It passed in a blur, in fact, as there were constant customer demands that came at her from every angle. If she wasn't pouring, she was fetching. If she wasn't fetching, she was serving. If she wasn't serving, she was taking requests and orders. She also took quite a few pats to her bottom, arms around her waist, pinches to her cheeks and one actual blatant grope to her bosom. She had all manner of sweet nothings whispered in her ear, propositions to accompany various gentlemen to their vehicles or homes, grandiose promises to take her away from "all this". She endured all of it with some semblance of grace, though, because most of those caresses and words were accompanied by coins.

The little room heated up almost unbearably once it reached full capacity and Francie was finally grateful for her low cut and backless dress. The windows couldn't be cracked as it would let out the noise, and occasionally she had to run back to the storage area to find a moment of cool relief. The heat was also increased due to the movement of the bodies dancing to the tunes the band played, and at times Francie almost dropped her tray – she had never seen dancing the likes of which was going on in the basement. Men and women ground their bodies together to the beat of the song, they kissed, they groped. They were sweaty and drunk, and they behaved as though there was no one else around them. And spectators merely cheered them on, inciting their lust for one another further now that they had an audience.

Francie was shocked. She was shocked at what she saw, and she was shocked that she almost wished she could be a part of it. She imagined someone holding her sweaty, hot body close to his, swaying to the beat of a song. She imagined his hands sliding all over her skin, over her hips and buttocks, squeezing the supple flesh he found there. She imagined a pair of lips, sinfully full and decadently soft, sliding up her slick neck to her jaw, until they found her waiting lips.

Her eyes unconsciously drifted toward where Forrest had been seated in a corner with his brothers all night. He'd refused to leave, and had done nothing but glower at her as she worked. She was now surprised to see the table they had been occupying was vacant; she wondered when they'd left.

_No matter_, she thought, ignoring the disappointment surging through her. Though Forrest was the most petulant man she'd ever met, and she didn't very much appreciate his aggression with her earlier, he was still an attractive man, one of the most attractive she'd ever laid eyes on, and she enjoyed sneaking looks at him. He seemed to know quite a few partygoers, as people kept coming up to him to speak pleasantries briefly. He shook hands, he nodded, he spoke back, but he never smiled.

Now, Miz Judy was in the process of kicking out all the customers – it was finally, blessedly closing time. Francie decided to pitch in and help her start cleaning, then sighed at the sight of all the empty jars of moonshine and apple brandy that were left littered around the room. Miz Judy had told her expressly that whatever was left should be washed and kept for re-use – they couldn't afford to be throwing away perfectly good glass jars when they could be given to bootleggers to refill and reuse.

It took another hour to clean the juke to Miz Judy's satisfaction, which luckily, was not at a high level due to the fact that people would be right back there the next two nights. She would handle all the bookkeeping tomorrow, she said, but she collected all of Francie's coins she'd been given in tips throughout the night to condense it down into more manageable cash. Francie was beside herself when Miz Judy presented her with a one dollar bill, a quarter, a dime, and two pennies.

"Well done," she said with a smile. "I told you that you could make some nice tips."

"I suppose so," Francie murmured in wonder. "I just can't believe all this is mine!"

"Don't forget I pay you wages, too," Miz Judy pointed out. "But not until Sunday morning. All right?"

"Yes, ma'am," Francie replied.

"G'on, now. Go home. Get you some rest and I'll see you back here tomorrow evening."

Francie walked upstairs slowly, turning her money over and over in her hand. She was speechless – a dollar and thirty-seven cents for a few hours of work?

"It should be illegal," she murmured to herself, then realized it was, and laughed aloud. She pushed open the front door and stepped out on the porch, hesitating to put her cardigan on again as the cool breeze in the dark night blew around her sweaty skin, cooling her instantly and making her shiver slightly. Nonetheless, she continued to stand still, closing her eyes as she leaned against the wall of the building, enjoying the deliciously chilly breeze. Eventually she pushed away from the wall as sleep threatened to overtake her as she leaned there, and pulled the cardigan on. She glanced up and saw a truck parked in front of the store and froze – there was no one around, and there were no other vehicles in sight. Miz Judy walked to and from the store each day. It was so dark it was hard to see anything beyond the size and shape of a truck, but after a bit Francie could make out the shape of a person. A man, and a sizeable one.

Nervousness and anxiety clawed her throat as she stared. Suddenly, a tiny, bright burst of light flared up as a match was struck, and the scent of a cigar burning wafted through the air and into her nose. Francie relaxed slightly but a barrage of emotions hit her – her nervousness couldn't completely deplete as she realized who was on the other side of that cigar.

"Mr. Bondurant," she said slowly, carefully edging across the porch with her back to the wall still. "What are you still doing here?"

"Dropped off my brothers. Came back," he replied. In the tiny, glowing light from his stogie Francie could see his eyes were locked onto her. After a moment, he sighed. "Come on down here, Miss Abellard. Stop sidlin' across that wall like you need to make a fast getaway."

Francie stopped her sidling and blushed. She realized her body was tense as though she were prepared to break into a run. She was just nervous; she knew instinctively that Forrest would never actually hurt her. She swallowed and hesitated, then stepped forward and made her way down the wooden porch steps toward him.

"Y-yes?" she stammered once she was in front of him. Whenever they were close, she was always struck anew by how imposing and how purely _masculine_ he was.

"You determined to work this damn job?" he asked bluntly. "Even though it ain't no place for a lady like you."

Francie blinked in surprise. "Why, yes," she replied, a little testily. "I am." She bit her lip, but annoyance got the best of her. "What does it matter so much to you anyway?"

He frowned at her. "It don't," he said flatly. His eyes drifted lower, and Francie realized her cardigan was hanging open, revealing her bosom. It hadn't mattered so much while she was working, but she wasn't sure how she felt about Forrest eyeing her like that. She yanked it tight around her body and folded her arms.

Forrest sighed again. "I'm takin' you home," he said gruffly. "Get in the truck." To her immense surprise, he walked to the passenger side door and pulled it open for her, glancing away and puffing on his cigar as he waited for her to climb into the cab.

"I-I don't need a ride," Francie said. "I'm perfectly capable of making my own way home."

Forrest puffed deeply on the cigar and stared at her. "No, you ain't," he replied. "Not in this pitch blackness. Not at this hour. Get in the truck."

Francie hesitated. For one, she didn't like his tone. He didn't have the right to give her orders. For two, she felt apprehensive about climbing into his truck when she barely knew him, and all of their encounters had been acidic. On the other hand…her feet hurt, her legs were tired from moving about all night, and the thought of her ten-minute walk home exhausted her.

She moved toward the open door, giving him a slightly dirty look, which he frowned at a little, before climbing up into the cab, a little difficult to manage due to her snug dress. She jumped slightly when Forrest slammed the door shut behind her with more force than was really necessary before making his way around to the driver's side door.

He started the engine and pulled off into the night. In the truck it would only take few minutes to reach the boarding house, but Francie was grateful to be able to rest her feet for a moment. She cleared her throat and glanced at Forrest out of the corner of her eye. His eyes were forward, one hand on the wheel as the other held his cigar lazily. She was momentarily lost in the way his lips wrapped around it, tensing as they pulled the smoke from the stogie. As if he sensed her staring at him in the darkness, his eyes flickered to their corners, cataloging her, before turning to the road again.

They reached the boarding house in no time at all. Francie gathered her slim skirt in her hand, preparing to open the door, but Forrest held up a hand.

"Wait," he said. She glanced over at him expectantly. "As long as you're bound and determined to work this blasted job, I will be waitin' outside for you every night to take you home. You seem to think you're invincible or somethin', like can't nothin' bad happen to you, but you drew plenty of attention tonight from a whole bunch of men who would love the chance to see what you got under that dress, not that they got to think too hard about it to picture it some." His words mortified her and made her blush deeply as she gaped at him. He continued as though he were simply talking about the weather. "So I'm gonna be escortin' you home whether you want me to or not. I won't be havin' you riskin' yourself for some job you don't really need to have."

Francie felt insulted, aggravated, annoyed and also a little flattered. She wanted to check him with a cool retort, to tell him that both he and his truck could go right to hell, but all she could say was, "Why?"

Forrest met her eyes, studying her as he puffed away. "You're so goddamn stubborn where this hospital money is concerned," he began, "so stuck on the whole idea of payin' me back. Apparently me tellin' you that you don't have to do that ain't good enough for you. So if _you_ are gonna insist on payin' me back, _I'm_ gonna insist on makin' sure nothin' hinders that. And you gallavantin' yourself around after dark with a whole bunch of men just waggin' their tongues at you beggin' for a taste is a surefire way to hinder that." He flicked ash out his window. "Consider it my terms of interest."

"It's really unnecessary," she said tersely. "I don't need you treating me like a child."

Forrest blinked at her. "If I got to pick you up and throw you over my shoulder, and toss your ass in this here truck and lock the door to get you home, so help me, I will. You won't like it."

Francie thought about him picking her up and throwing her around _anywhere _and was sure that she might like it. She set her jaw, cursing both him and herself silently. She hated the way he could get under her skin.

"Fine," she said icily. "If you insist." She reached for the handle again. "Thank you for the ride home, Mr. Bondurant," she added a little sarcastically. "Good night to you." She opened her door and hopped out, moving toward the building, and an instant later she heard his door open and shut. She stopped in her tracks and stared up at him in confusion as he strolled around the front of the truck and moved to her side.

"Just what are you doing, Mr. Bondurant?" she demanded.

He looked at her witheringly. "Makin' sure you get home safely. I thought we just had this talk."

"And that includes escorting me to my front door?"

"Unless right here in front of this building is your home, then yes."

Francie huffed and stalked toward the door on the side of the building. She used her key to unlock it and then grudgingly pushed the door open for Forrest. He followed her up to her room and stood behind her as she turned her key in the lock. She opened her door, then glanced over her shoulder at him. He nodded toward her.

"G'on," he said. "I ain't leavin' 'til I hear you lock up."

"I'm not a _child_, you know," she repeated, fuming. He merely looked at her and waited. She sighed exasperatedly and stepped into her room, shutting the door. Then she turned the lock on the handle and the deadbolt, followed by latching the security chain. "Are you pleased now?" she called through the door.

By way of answer, she heard the thud of his boots as he walked down the hallway and then the steps. Francie turned and moved to her window, pulling off her cardigan and tossing it on her bed. She drew aside the drapes just as Forrest was getting into his truck and cranking the engine. She didn't have the lights on, but somehow his face turned up toward her window anyway. He saw her standing there, and she couldn't help a shiver when his eyes moved from her face down her body again. Silently, he tugged the brim of his hat and drove off.

:O:O:O:

By Sunday morning, Francie was exhausted from the late nights of hard work, but she was extremely proud of herself for that hard work and it was with a triumphant smile that she presented Mr. Macready with his weekly boarding fee at breakfast the next morning. She slid the two dollar bills and the two quarters along the table toward him, relishing the fact that it had come solely from her tip money and none of her wages between her two jobs. She watched him eye the money as she dug into her flapjacks with gusto, pouring half a pitcher of maple syrup on her stack of cakes before cutting into them voraciously.

"Ah, thank you," he said, sounding a little confused. "You're ahead of schedule there, honey. I'll keep this for five weeks from now." He set the money on the table between their plates.

Francie furrowed her brow as she chewed, trying to make sense of what he was saying. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Macready?"

Mrs. Macready joined them at the table, placing a plate with a short stack in front of her husband. She smiled at Francie and added another hot cake to her stack.

"That nice man, that Mr. Bondurant, he gave the old man here ten dollars earlier this week to cover your fee for a while," the woman said as she served Francie and her husband a few strips of bacon. "I just thought that was so sweet of him to be so concerned about you."

Francie was thunderstruck and speechless for a moment. She was so enraged she literally saw red for a moment; Forrest Bondurant had taken the money _she_ had given _him_ to repay the hospital bill…and had given it to her landlord?

_That son of a bitch_, she thought, hardly registering the fact that she had actually sworn, even if it was just in her mind.

She drew in a deep breath through her nose, summoning her dignity. She turned to Mr. Macready, who was crumbling his bacon on top of his pancakes. "Mr. Macready," she began formally. "I believe there has been an error. I regretfully ask you to return that ten dollars to me, please, and I will see that Mr. Bondurant receives it. Please take this for this week," she pushed the money from her tips back toward him, "and you and I will return to a weekly schedule of payment. Please do not accept any money from anyone other than myself."

Mr. Macready looked more confused than before. "You're sayin'...you want me to give you back the ten bucks that Forrest there done gave me the other night fer ya?"

Francie nodded, picking at her plate as her appetite swiftly left her. "Yes. That is what I'm saying. I do apologize for the inconvenience, Mr. Macready, but Mr. Bondurant acted out of turn."

He still looked confused, but he pocketed her money and nodded. "All right, then. I'll get the ten bucks fer ya after we eat." He chuckled. "I don't 'spect Forrest to take kindly to his money being returned to him, but oh well."

Francie forced a smile, but inwardly she fumed. _You think you're so smart, Forrest Bondurant_, she thought, gripping her fork. _I'll show you._

:O:O:O:

_New Orleans_

Detective Rollins returned to his office, which happened to be in his home, somewhat dejectedly. He had turned up nothing in Roanoke. No one recognized the picture of Francesca Fontaine he had with him, and no one at the train depot had seemed to know anything. It had been an utter waste of time and money.

He fixed himself a cup of coffee and went into his study, sitting down at his desk. The valuables and money that Miss Fontaine had stolen from the Lattimores had been returned. All that remained of her belongings now was the satchel she had been carrying everything in and her train ticket. He looked at the ticket now, his mind spinning. Suddenly a thought, embarrassingly simple, occurred to him. It was no wonder that no one in Roanoke knew anything about Miss Fontaine – she'd clearly never made it there. At first, he'd wondered if she'd purchased herself a new ticket, but based on the amount of money that had been taken and returned to the Lattimores, she wouldn't have been able to keep enough for another ticket, if she wanted to do things like eat. Perhaps she had gone elsewhere. Staying in Atlanta was unlikely; before heading on to Roanoke, he had scoured that city as well, with no sign of her anywhere. But perhaps returning to Atlanta would be in his favor – the one place he had not sought additional information was at the train depot itself. If she had purchased another ticket somewhere, the booth attendants would likely know. And if it were on another rail line, surely the conductors would remember her.

His gaze lit on the photograph of her that the Lattimores had given him so she could be properly identified. She was a beautiful woman, technically colored or no, the detective thought, idly stroking a finger over the picture. It was a shame she had made the decisions that she'd had. When he found her, her life would become a miserable existence – or it would be snuffed out.

Detective Rollins sighed and stretched. Since becoming a private investigator after leaving the New Orleans police department years ago, he found that he had made far more money working for himself than he ever had. True, he had to sometimes engage in certain behaviors that he found unbecoming for a Southern gentleman, like torture, intimidation, threats, and so on. But he had yet to fail a client, and he certainly wasn't about to begin with the Lattimores. They would be the wrong sort of people to fail, or to cross, as was clear in Miss Fontaine's situation.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was a quarter after six, and time for supper. With a renewed sense of purpose, he pushed away from his desk to move into the dining area. His live-in cook was putting the finishing touches on his meal and he sat down with enthusiasm, tucking his napkin inside his collar. Tomorrow, he would return to Atlanta. He was confident he was on the right path now. Miss Fontaine's days, he thought regrettably, were numbered, wherever it was that she was living them.

The next morning, before dawn, Detective Rollins hopped on the train for Atlanta. He hated having to spend his own money on these tickets – they were expensive, though he'd be getting reimbursed, and the travel was exhausting. However, it was necessary to accomplishing his mission.

When he stepped off the train upon his arrival, he went straight for the ticket booth. The attendant was reading a newspaper and barely looked up when the detective bore down on him.

"Yeah?" the attendant asked, turning a page.

Detective Rollins slid Miss Fontaine's photograph toward him. "I'm looking for a girl."

"Ain't we all," the attendant replied, still not looking up. "I'd try somewheres else 'sides the train depot, though, Chief."

"That's not exactly what I meant," the detective said with a sigh. "Have you seen this girl?"

Finally the attendant looked up, first at the detective's face and then at the photo. He wrinkled his brow almost as if he were in confusion. Then, a sly look came into his eyes.

"What she do?" he drawled. "Why you innerested in her?"

Detective Rollins matched his stare evenly. "Why don't you answer my question first? Have you seen her?" He tilted his head when the attendant glanced away, refusing to answer. "Come, now. A pretty girl like this, surely you would remember. She's got dark hair, a deep complexion but bright blue eyes. An odd combination in a dark-featured girl, wouldn't you say? You'd remember those eyes, now, wouldn't you?" As he was speaking, the detective subtly reached into his pocket and pulled out one of the pre-folded bills he'd prepared for this encounter. He casually flipped his palm toward the attendant so he could see it, then the detective placed his palm down flat on the counter. The attendant's eyes followed every move.

"Have you seen her?" Detective Rollins repeated softly. The attendant nodded slowly, and he slid the folded bill into the man's hand.

"She come here late one night," the attendant said with a sigh. "She look like she been busted purdy good in the face. She wanted to go to Roanoke, she said, but she ain't have enough money. Looked like she'd been cryin'. I felt right sorry for her, I did." Detective Rollins nodded sympathetically and the man continued. "So she give me all the money she had on her and I gives her a ticket in return."

"And where was the ticket to?" the detective asked.

The man stared at him. "Well," he said slowly. "I ain't quite sure I remember correctly, now."

The detective gritted his teeth, but reached into his pocket and produced another pre-folded bill. He held it up and then handed it over.

"Oh," the attendant said brightly. "Now I do recall. I sent her on out to the little depot, the one 'tween Rocky Mount and Franklin County."

"And to which city did she seem more apt to go?"

"City?" the attendant snorted. "Seemed to me she was leanin' toward Franklin. But the depot's closer to Rocky Mount, and there's a whole bunch more there that would suit a lady like her than tired ol' Franklin."

"I'll check them both," Detective Rollins said abruptly. "One ticket, please."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews, you guys. I'm glad you're enjoying this so far :-) Keep them coming!**

**Chapter 9**

For two weeks, Forrest stayed true to his word and was there every night Francie worked at the juke, waiting outside his truck for her silently until she came outside. Then, he would open the cab door for her and take her home. Sometimes they would speak if it was necessary, usually they wouldn't. But every night, once Forrest walked her to her door, Francie would always look at him and say, "Thank you, Mr. Bondurant. Good night." And he would grunt in reply and wait in the hallway, not looking at her, until he heard the locks latching in and on her door. Only then would he retreat down to his truck and drive home to the station. And that would be that until the next night, the next week.

One night during this two-week span, Forrest had been completely caught off guard because Francie deviated from their routine. He had been walking up the steps behind her, silent as always, when she suddenly tripped and toppled forward. He'd seen it coming and had quickly moved up beside her, grasping her waist and arm and pulling her back to help her avoid the fall. She'd been clutching at him, pulling on his cardigan as she struggled to regain her balance. He'd been aware of little else besides the warmth of her small body against his, the way his large hand covered her waist, how close her face had been to his. For a moment, he had lost himself in her eyes – those enormous, black-ringed crystal blue eyes that somehow appeared even bigger and were staring up at him like he was the only man they'd ever beheld, while a tiny, self-deprecating little smile tugged at the corners of her pillowy lips.

"I am such a klutz," she'd said quietly, her breath a sweet whisper against his lips. "I'm sure I would have knocked out two of my own teeth had you not caught me just then….Forrest."

It was the first time she had ever used his first name while speaking to him, and between the look in her eyes, the enticing draw of her bottom lip between her teeth and the sound of his own name spoken in that sweet, throaty voice, he'd been struck dumb and speechless.

"Umm," he'd grunted. "Wasn't – wasn't no trouble."

He had realized he was still hanging onto her though she had long regained her balance, so he let go of her and stepped back down a couple of steps to give her room, clearing his throat. She had smiled down at him strangely and then began to climb the stairs again, this time careful to hold onto the railing and take smaller steps. When she reached her door, she had turned to look at him, the same strange little smile on her face.

"Thank you, Mr. Bondurant," she had said softly, as though she'd realized her little slip from before. "Good night."

"Umm," he'd said, then turned his head away as she slipped into her room and shut and locked the door. It was only when he'd gotten back inside his truck, driven home to the station, and pulled off his cardigan that he'd realized something was in the pocket, making a light crinkling noise. With a frown, he had reached into the pocket and pulled out a single ten dollar bill along with a five dollar bill.

Now, leaning against the hood of his truck, he recalled that night with irritation. She had planned that little farce, he knew that now. He expected that sooner or later she'd find out that he had paid her landlord the ten dollars she had forced on him, but he had expected her to come at him with her guns blazing, with a sharp tone and even sharper words like she usually did. He didn't expect that she would resort to using her feminine wiles to distract him. And calling him "Forrest". He shook his head. That woman was something else, entirely. He'd know better going forward; she wouldn't catch him again no matter how many times she fluttered those long, thick eyelashes at him and pouted up those plump lips of hers.

The strangling feeling around his neck came upon him again as it was prone to do whenever he thought of Francie or her mouth too long, and he carefully pulled his collar out away from his neck. He sighed, wondering what was taking her so long. It was Saturday night – well, it was really more like Sunday morning by now. He always felt a bit let-down, an odd feeling, at this particular time of the week. He refused to admit that it had anything to do with the fact that he would have to wait another five days to see her, unless he needed to come to town for something. A man _should _feel melancholy on the Sabbath, he told himself. That's what the day was for, after all. It wouldn't be fitting for him to be cutting capers and kicking up his heels.

He snorted involuntarily at the thought of actually doing that – it would never happen. Forrest had smiled intermittently in his life, he was sure. He paused for a moment, wrinkling his forehead as he tried to recall any occasions on which he had smiled. He came up short and dismissed the thought, annoyed. He was sure that at least once or twice in his life he'd smiled about something. Regardless, anything beyond that was simply out of the question for him. He had only two settings – moody and angry.

He shifted his weight and reached into the pocket of his pants for a cigar. He pulled it out and lit it, catching a scent on the unseasonably cool air for spring – rain. It was coming on, he could tell. He was glad for it. He had always liked rain, always found it to be peaceful and calming. Though the breeze raised goosebumps on his flesh underneath his thin blue shirt, he left his cardigan in the truck, deciding he enjoyed the feeling of the air too much to mind the chill.

He pulled on the cigar and wondered again what was taking Miss Abellard so long. Miz Judy rarely made her clean up beyond simply tidying, as the old woman herself liked to spend her Sundays scrubbing the place down. Gave her peace, she always said. Francie always seemed to be only too happy to do her minimal chores before heading out of the store. Forrest could tell that the late nights were taking a bit of a toll on her; she seemed to tire more easily and sometimes her eyes were a little puffy and her face a bit wan. So far, though, Forrest knew that she was mostly all right. And he knew that because her lips still stayed pink. When they went colorless, like they'd been that day they'd found her on the side of the road, then something was really wrong. He hated to admit to himself that he was as fixated on her mouth as he was. He'd just never seen one as lovely as hers before, and it was so damn inviting he found his eyes automatically going to it whenever they were in close proximity. She had a habit, a bad one in his book, of drawing her lower lip between her teeth whenever she lost herself in thought, which she seemed prone to doing on their rides to the boarding house. Something was on her heart, he sensed. Some heavy burden. He would never ask and she would likely never volunteer it, but it hung gloomily about her in the air like a thick, heavy tapestry, and he could sense it. He wasn't an overly curious man in general – he tended to mind his own business and preferred for everyone to do the same unless there was a common interest shared, like commerce. But something about this woman, something about the sadness and fear that clung to her, made him want to figure her out. Because she was so maddeningly confusing otherwise.

Forrest shifted his weight again impatiently, and decided that once he finished his cigar he would go into the store and hunt for her to find out for himself what in the hell was taking so long. He took a few more pulls, exhaling the smoke in a stream into the cloud, and almost choked when he suddenly heard a grunting noise come around from the side of the store. A heavy, hard, and decidedly female grunt.

He threw his cigar down into the dirt and crept stealthily toward the side of the building, cocking an ear attentively to listen for anything else. Gradually, he became aware of heavy, frightened breathing, muffled as though it was hindered in some way, and then he heard a low voice speaking.

"You been actin' mighty uppity since you come to work for Miz Judy," a male voice said. Forrest narrowed his eyes as he heard a muffled whimper in reply. "Ever since the first night you turned me and m'buddy here down, when all's we wanted was to show y'a good time, you been actin' too big fer your britches. Not servin' us, not waitin' on us, ignorin' us every time we's in the juke." There was another little whimper, which was cut off with a scuffling noise, followed by a small, muted thud and then another grunt of pain. "You know what we do to snobby city gals like you? Especially ones who walk around with their busts out in tight dresses?"

"Speakin' of britches, let's take a look at hers," a second male voice said. Forrest heard a ripping noise and a muffled, feminine squeal. He turned the corner of the building, his hand slipping into his pocket and finding his brass automatically.

"Wouldn't do that just now, gentlemen," he said quietly, and watched as two men leapt apart from where they were huddled together against the wall. When they parted, Forrest clenched his jaw at the sight he knew he'd see. They'd had Francie pressed to the wall, covering her mouth. Her dress was now literally torn open down to her navel, the skirt hitched up to her thighs, and there was a trickle of blood coming from one corner of her mouth. Her hair was wild and she looked terrified, as did her assailants at the sight of him.

"Oh, ah – Forrest," the man he knew as Ben stuttered. "Whatcha – whatcha doin' there?" He still had one hand around Francie's arm.

"You need to take your hands off her now," Forrest said quietly, and Ben dropped her arm immediately. His partner in crime, Rufus, took the opportunity to turn on his heel and go tearing off into the night. Forrest glanced after him mildly, making no attempt to go after him.

He beckoned to Francie and she glanced fearfully at her remaining assailant, too frightened to move. "Come here, Francesca."

She gulped and pushed herself slowly away from the wall, then all but ran to him. Her bosom was loose in her torn bodice, and Forrest averted his eyes when she reached him, holding onto his forearm with shaking hands, her eyes wide and darting from side to side. Now that she was closer, he could see that in addition to her cut lip, she had a little nasty bruise on one temple and dark mark across one cheekbone.

"Pull your dress together, honey," he said to her very quietly. "Go wait for me in truck." She hesitated, surely caught off guard by his use of a term of endearment directed at _her_, and stared up at him. He glared around her at Ben trying to edge away.

"Don't take one more fuckin' step," he said, still calm but his tone full of warning. He turned back to Francie. "G'on, now," he said louder, giving her a little push. She hurried away and as he advanced on Ben, he heard the sound of the truck door opening and slamming shut.

"M-my fault, there, Forrest," Ben stammered, backing up a little. "I-I didn't know she was yours."

_She ain't_, Forrest thought, but instead said, "What was your plan there, Benjamin, before I come and spoil all your fun?" He clenched his fist at his side.

"N-nothin', nothin' a'tall," Ben insisted. "We's just – me and Rufus – we's just havin' a little fun with the gal, that's all."

"That's what you call fun?" Forrest asked. Before Ben could answer, Forrest cocked his fist back and smashed it into Ben's face, right in the middle, and heard a satisfying crunch that signaled the man's nose was broken as he'd intended. Ben immediately slid down the wall of the side of the store, his face a bloody mess of broken bone, split cartilage and flesh, and sat slumped over, gurgling as his eyes rolled in a daze. Forrest knelt down in front of him, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe the blood from his brass and his hand, then slipped the knuckles into his pocket.

"I'm sure I don't have to tell you, you ain't comin' back to the juke ever again," he said gently, grabbing Ben by the jaw to make him look him in the eye. Ben gurgled in reply. "You ain't lookin' at her no more, you ain't thinkin' about her. You ain't breathin' in her direction. In fact, you best find your pal Rufus and get the hell out of this town. If I see either of you again I will beat you both to death. I guarantee you that." He yanked on Ben's face again, jostling his eyes open. "We clear, Benjamin?"

The man gurgled again and slid all the way over, face first into the dirt. At that moment, Forrest heard rapid footsteps on the wooden porch and then Miz Judy was leaning around the corner.

"What the devil – Forrest? Is that you? What in the hell is goin' on?"

Forrest rose from his crouched position, grunting a little as his knees popped. He was only thirty-one but damned if he didn't feel like an old man sometimes.

"Nothin' to trouble you, ma'am. Nothin' I didn't take care of."

Miz Judy squinted. "Is that Ben?"

"Yes, ma'am." Forrest glanced down at the unconscious man and then made his way toward the porch.

"And just why did you feel the need to break his face, Forrest Bondurant?" Miz Judy folded her arms and looked at him sternly. He mounted the porch and walked slowly across it toward the staircase.

"Well, ma'am, seems him and his buddy were troublin' your new gal," he replied lightly. He jerked his head toward the cab and Miz Judy followed, seeing Francie in the truck.

"Oh, hell!" Miz Judy hurried off the porch and down the stairs, Forrest following behind her slowly. The old woman wrenched open the door and took the frightened girl into her arms. "Are you all right there, sweetness?"

"Y-yes, M-miz Judy," Francie stammered. "I'm – I'm fine. They just scared me."

"Again," the old woman added angrily. She noted Francie's torn dress and tried to tug it closed for her. "Put that sweater on, there." She snatched the cardigan on the seat, in fact Forrest's own gray cardigan, and wrapped it around the girl. Then she fussed over the blood trailing from Francie's mouth, using her handkerchief and some spit to clean it off. "Now you go home and get some rest. Y'hear?"

"Yes, ma'am," Francie said tremulously.

Forrest stopped the old woman before she climbed the porch steps again. "Hate to tell you, ma'am, but I think you'll be losin' two of your customers. You shouldn't be seein' 'em around here anymore, but if you do, I'll ask that you let me know." He looked at her meaningfully, and Miz Judy nodded and patted his arm.

"Yes, yes, of course," she said. "Now you get that poor child home, Forrest."

"Yes, ma'am," Forrest replied. "Good night."

He climbed into the truck and cranked the engine, giving Francie a long look. She was shivering and staring out the window, tears on her cheeks. He had a horrible urge to say "I told you so" but even he knew that it would be the wrong thing to say. He pulled off silently and drove through the town. When he reached the boarding house, he turned off the truck engine and glanced at her again. Both of her lips were folded in and she stared at the dashboard.

"Things like that don't happen around here, do they?" she asked suddenly. "This is a small, quiet town. How can things like that happen? This isn't New Orleans."

His ears perked up a little; she had never mentioned where she was from before. "They don't happen often, but they happen."

She turned her eyes, huge and pale with fear, up at him. "Women – they get – they get –"

"Raped," Forrest supplied bluntly. "Same thing as woulda happened to you at the hands of them two pieces of shit."

She swallowed, then blinked, and then she burst into tears.

Forrest shifted uncomfortably. He hated the sight of a crying woman, and hated even more the fact that he felt completely inadequate as to what to do about it. He'd never been good at comforting women, and rarely came across the ones that needed it. But it angered him; he didn't like to see her cry, or to think about her almost getting raped. Maggie had been raped. Unbidden, the memory came back to him. Granted, he'd castrated and killed the sons of bitches who'd done it, but at the time, he hadn't known that. And Maggie had cried to him, had cried over what they'd done to her, had cried that Forrest was leaving to almost get killed at that bridge, and what had he done? He'd looked at her, and simply walked away, leaving her as she cried. His chest burned with the familiar pain that accompanied memories of Maggie, and he glanced over at the dark-haired crying woman beside him.

"Hey," he said softly, and she looked up with a sniffle. "You stop that now, y'hear." She swallowed hard and rapidly blinked at him. He cleared his throat, casting about for something else to say. "They – they won't be botherin' you again, Miss Abellard. I made sure of it."

"Francie," she said softly. "Please…Forrest. Call me Francie."

"Umm," he grunted. He cleared his throat again and glanced out the windshield, his heart tugging in an odd way as his first name slipped past her lips for the second time. "Francie." He noticed that his sweater had fallen away from her, revealing her torn bodice again, and he had a flash of the pale, smooth, luscious flesh of her bosom. He tore his eyes away, and reached over toward her.

She saw his hand coming and jumped, cowering back against the doorframe almost off of instinct. He looked at her evenly, then reached out again and grasped the edge of his sweater, gently pulling it across her body to cover her. She followed his slow, deliberate movements with her eyes, then looked up at him.

"C'mon," he said. "Let's get you inside."

He hopped out and walked around to her side, opening the door for her. Her legs were shaking so badly she could hardly maneuver herself to jump out, so he placed her hands on his shoulders for leverage and held her waist firmly, lifting her out and setting her down. He shut the door and turned to head toward the side door of the boarding house, and realized that Francie wasn't going to make it on her own. He slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her in close so she could use his body to brace herself against. At first she touched him tentatively.

"You ain't gonna make it, holdin' onto me soft like that," he admonished her gently. "Now, c'mon. Get you a good grip. I got you."

At his words, she tightened her arm around him and leaned into him, and he helped her into the building. He took her key from her shaking hand because she couldn't do it, and opened the door. He paused at the base of the stairs, feeling Francie's body trembling violently. If she could hardly walk on a flat surface, he couldn't see how she could possibly manage the stairs, even with his solid body supporting her. He glanced down at her.

"I'm gonna pick you up now," he said quietly. "Only way you gon' get up them stairs." She nodded silently, and he leaned down and scooped her up in his arms. She was light but solid, firm and warm despite her shaking. It was just nerves, he reasoned. A good night's rest would help.

He started up the stairs, going slowly, not because she was heavy but because he didn't want to jostle her too much or risk tripping on the stairs. As he went, he gradually noticed that she had a fistful of his shirt in one balled hand, and her face was pressed to his chest. She was taking deep breaths and her exhales warmed the flesh under his shirt in a way that made his skin ripple pleasantly.

When he reached the top of the stairs, he couldn't seem to find a way to put her down, so he carried her to her door. She lifted her face from his chest to look up at him, and he wasn't sure if he set her down, dropped her, or she hopped down, but suddenly, she was on her feet again.

"Th-thank you, Forrest," she said quietly. "Goodnight." She made no move to open her door, though, lingering with her back to it. He realized she was still touching him, her small hands splayed across his chest. And he realized his hands were still on her waist. Instead of dropping them immediately, however, they involuntarily tightened slightly when she whispered, "Forrest." Her breath ghosted over his chin, as she drew her bottom lip between her teeth. She released it, and it glistened ever so slightly when her tongue swiped out over it. Forrest swallowed hard. It was torturous.

He froze, not trusting himself to do anything other than stand still. "Hmm?" His eyes were riveted on her mouth and he felt his own water slightly.

"I need my key," she whispered. A tiny smile pulled up the corners of the mouth he was fixated on, and at her words he shook himself.

"Umm," he said. "Sorry. Here." He held out her key and she took it. Her hand was still cold and clammy, but it seemed steadier.

"Thank you," she replied. She turned and slid the key into the lock, turning it, and then pushing the door open. Before she shut the door, she looked out at him. "Your sweater," she said. She started to shrug out of it. "Let me hand it back to you."

"No, no," he said, holding up a hand. "You hold onto that for now. You can return it to me later."

He wondered if she would insist, but she gave him another small smile and wrapped it tightly around her body again. "Thanks."

"You – you get some rest now," he said awkwardly. "G'on. Lock up."

She held his gaze for a beat, then her lips widened into a slightly wider smile, sweetly wistful, and he had to look away.

"Good night, Forrest," she said softly.

"Good night," he replied gruffly, looking at the floor. He heard the door shut, and then a moment later the locks turning. He stared at her door for a long moment, then turned and headed down the stairs. He wondered if being alone was the best thing for her right now; then again, he wasn't exactly the best company. The most he could offer to do was stay outside her door in the hallway and make sure nothing else happened. And if she would have given any indication that was something she would be interested in having him do…he would have done it. No questions asked. But – she didn't ask, and he hadn't offered, so it was best he just went on home.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Forrest had just pulled onto the road, heading back to the station, when he noticed a small object on the floor of the passenger side. He leaned down carefully to grab it, and saw that it was Francie's small pocketbook. He sighed, turning it over in his hand. He didn't want to disturb her, but there might be something in it that she needed. He turned the truck around and headed back to town. Once he pulled up to the boarding house, he remained in the cab long enough to reach into his pocket and pull out the fifteen dollars she'd snuck on him last week. He folded them tightly and opened the pocketbook, shoving the money to the bottom before snapping it closed and getting out of the cab. When he walked around the building to the side door, he froze.

There was a brand new, shiny black Ford Model A sitting there that hadn't been there when he'd left – in fact, he'd _never _seen it before anywhere in town. It must have just arrived since he hadn't been gone that long. He walked up to the car and placed his hand on the hood – it was still warm.

Voices suddenly floated down from above – and he saw that Francie's window was cracked. There was a lamp on in her little room, and he could see shadows moving but no one came to the window. He stared up at it, listening intently.

"…alive, Miss Fontaine. You missed the heart by a fraction of an inch. How about that?"

_Fontaine?_ Forrest thought, confused.

"He threatened to _kill_ me!" Francie's panicked voice floated out. "He – he found out what I am and he told me he was going to kill me –"

What_ she is? Kill her?_ Forrest had no idea what was going on, but he couldn't stand around and wait to find out. He neared the door, wondering how much money he was going to need to leave old man Macready to fix the door he was about to break down, when he noticed that the door was slightly ajar. A crowbar lay in the dirt nearby and Forrest realized whoever had come for their late-night visit with Francie had beat him to it. Silently, he pushed the door open far enough for him to slip through and went back up the stairs, taking them two at a time until he reached her floor. He paused outside her door, listening.

"…bring you back to New Orleans. So you should pack up, nice and cooperative-like, and come with me."

"No!" Francie exclaimed. "I'm not leaving. I refuse. The Lattimores will only try to kill me again, and will probably succeed!"

"You'll go to jail before any of that happens, and I assure you, that's the only place you'll want to be," the man was saying. "Now, come!"

Forrest heard scuffling noises, then a thud. He heard Francie shriek and then glass shattered. The light he could see under her door went out, and the man howled angrily.

"Stop being so difficult!" the man bellowed, and then Forrest heard a slapping noise. For a brief instant, he thought about calling out to Francie, then decided against it and kicked her door down instead. The wooden door flew open, the locks shattering off and splinters flew as he stormed into the dark room. There was enough light from the hallway for him to see a large man leaning over Francie on the floor. She was dressed in a nightie and a robe, and one of her arms was locked in the grip of the man, while her hair, freed from its knot and flowing, was gathered tightly into his other hand. Her nose was bleeding, and she was hysterical.

Fury scorched in his chest and Forrest's fingers slipped through his brass knuckles before he was even aware he was reaching for them. For the second time that night, he put them to use, grabbing the collar of the man's fancy suit and yanking backward with every ounce of force he possessed, which was considerable. He took in the man's face, a heavy-set man with slicked black hair and a mustache and dark eyes before he let his fist fly. The first blow crashed into the man's cheek and the second blow across his nose. Blood flowed out of his face and the man gasped, rolling out of Forrest's grasp. Forrest straightened, breathing hard through his nose. He looked at Francie, huddled on the floor, pulling her robe around herself. He pointed.

"Get your things together," he ordered calmly. "You ain't stayin' here anymore. Don't bother changin', just pack your bags." Francie dropped the dress she had picked up and began whirling in all directions, gathering clothing and various items and dropping them into her suitcase. She didn't have much, he was pleased to see; it shouldn't take long. He turned back to the man on the floor, groaning in pain.

"Hey, you," Forrest said, crouching down. "What the fuck you doin' in this woman's room? Why you botherin' her?"

The man spat blood and a tooth, fumbling for his handkerchief. "She's not so innocent as she looks," he croaked, his voice thick with fluid. "You'd be shocked if you knew what she did. Folks are after her, bad folks. She has a crime to answer for."

"Forrest –" Francie began frantically, and Forrest held up his hand to silence her. He grabbed the man by his tie and hauled him up until his face was inches from his own.

"Tell whoever the fuck sent you not to do it again, or else I'll be sending back your body in pieces," he said quietly, hoping Francie couldn't hear him. "You hear me?"

Without waiting for an answer, Forrest glanced over his shoulder at Francie. "You packed up?" She nodded quickly in return. He said material sticking out of the sides of her large suitcase but it appeared as though she had all of her belongings. "Go down to the truck and wait for me."

Her eyes were huge with fright as she stared, then, before he had to tell her twice, she fled the room, still in her robe and small slippers. Forrest grabbed the man by his necktie again and made him get to his feet. He patted around his waist and located a small black revolver that the man had tucked into his belt. Forrest forced him out the door and struggled with the man down the stairs. He put the revolver to his back and made him walk to the car and get inside. The man was still bleeding profusely, his hands in the air as Forrest trained the gun on him.

"When you wake up," Forrest said coldly, "I 'spect you'll head right on back to wherever it is you come from. I 'spect I'll never see you 'round here again. I told you what would happen to you if I do see you. I'm a man of my word, but this is one promise you don't wanna find out if I'll make good on." He pressed the hammer back on the revolver and took a step back in case the man tried to grab for it. "I don't care who she is, what she done, or who sent you – don't come back again."

"Wh-what do you mean, when I wake up?" the man asked, his eyes locked on the barrel.

Forrest cocked is head. "Is that all you heard me say?" he asked, in slightly chiding tone. Before the man could answer, Forrest spun the revolver on a finger until he was gripping the barrel and brought the butt down into the man's temple hard, knocking him out cold. As an afterthought, Forrest held a finger under the man's nose to make sure he was still breathing and he hadn't accidentally killed him. Not that he was particularly concerned about it if he had, but he really did want the man to relay his message to whomever had been stupid enough to send him out here.

He tucked the revolver into his waistband and stalked back to the truck. He yanked the door open and climbed inside, then pulled out onto the road again.

"Why didn't anyone come out?" Francie mumbled, almost to herself.

"Umm," Forrest grumbled. "What's that, now?"

"All the noise," Francie went on, sounding dazed. "All the noise and no one came out."

"Folks are pretty good about mindin' their own around here," Forrest replied. He glanced over at her. "You all right? He didn't hurt you too bad?" He fished a clean handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her. She used it to wipe her bloody nose.

"Not too bad," she said softly, then blew out a shaky breath. Forrest suddenly felt very sorry for her; she'd had a hell of a night.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked presently, after several moments of silence.

"To the station," Forrest replied, keeping his eyes on the road. "I don't know what you done or why you got so many people after you, but I do know that if you stay by yourself you gonna wind up dead one of these days." He didn't mean to put it so bluntly, but he was disturbed by the fact that all of a sudden she seemed to have a target on her back. He knew he could keep her safe, but he didn't know from what. After another beat of silence, he spoke again.

"I ain't askin', by the way," he said. He glanced at her and saw her staring at him with something like guilt on her face. "Whatever it is you done ain't none of my business. If I find out it's only because you decide you want to tell me. All right? I ain't askin'."

"All right," she said quietly.

He pulled up to the station and got out of the truck, making her stay put. He wanted to make sure no one had followed them, and he heard no sounds of engines anywhere nearby. He opened up her door and helped her out of the cab, doing his best to ignore the fact that she was dressed in only her nightie and robe. He grabbed her suitcase and led her into the station. It was empty, as Howard and Jack preferred to live on their father's farm. He locked the door behind them and led her upstairs. He showed her to the guest bedroom.

"Do you need anything?" he asked gently. He wasn't a huge drinker himself, but if ever there was a night where a man and a woman needed to have a good, stiff drink, this was it.

"No, thank you," she murmured. She looked up at him, her eyes wide. "I feel like I've brought you nothing but trouble, Forrest. I am so sorry to be such a bother. You ought – you ought to just let that man have me and be done with it." Her voice caught slightly and two tears oozed out of her eyes.

"You hush that up, now," he said gruffly. "Don't need to be talkin' like that." He gestured to the bed. "You best get some rest now. I'm right across the hall. You're safe here."

She exhaled long and hard at his last words, and nodded, turning away. He backed out of the room and shut the door. For a moment he lingered in front of it, wishing he weren't so awkward and uncomfortable with providing some measure of comfort to another human being. He was about to head into his room when the sound of her muffled crying made him stop in his tracks.

He listened to her cry for what felt like an eternity, then decided to go downstairs. Though he normally didn't imbibe, and certainly not in a tense situation where he needed to be alert, a shot – or three – of corn was just the thing he needed to take the edge off his nerves.

:O:O:O:

After his drink, he decided to set up shop in his office and go over some paperwork. He didn't feel like sleeping yet, though it was extremely late and he was tired. He was still worried that he might receive an unexpected visitor, and the thought was unsettling, to say the least.

Francie had quieted down her crying shortly after he'd come downstairs, and he hoped that she had finally fallen asleep. But now, as he leaned over his ledger, he heard a faint, strangled cry come from her room. In an instant he was out of his chair and up the stairs, pausing outside her door with his hand on the knob.

"Francie," he called quietly. Silence met his ears, and then he heard another low, distressed moan and rustling noises. He turned the knob and quietly opened the door, the light from the upstairs lamp illuminating the room a little. He realized she was still asleep, but she must have been having a nightmare. The sheets were tangled up in her limbs and she was on her side, her face obscured by her long, messy hair that he noticed was starting to look curlier these days. He also noticed, feeling a surge of warmth shoot through him, that her nightie, already short, had hitched higher and the bottom part of her bare backside was showing. He tried to look away, but as her thighs shifted, he caught sight of her womanhood, just a flash of it, before she was shifting again.

_Dear Lord Jesus_, he thought, feeling his body instantly come to life at the sight, specifically below the waist. This was wrong. He shouldn't be in here, shouldn't be witnessing this and certainly he shouldn't be around her in her state of undress. He turned to leave but a louder, tormented cry met his ears and he turned again. She was sobbing silently in her sleep, wracking sobs that shook her small body, and she was reaching out vaguely. Whether she was searching for something in her dreams or trying to push something away he couldn't be sure, but her anguish was palpable. He hesitated. Part of him wanted to leave her be, but another part wanted to stay with her.

He walked over to the bed and leaned over it gently. He placed a hand on her shoulder and shook it slightly, hoping to jostle her awake. She only flopped onto her side, curling into a ball. He saw that the hem of her nightie was up to her waist now, so he carefully pulled the sheet up to cover her, trying to ignore the jerking of his swollen pecker inside his trousers.

"Francie," he said, his low voice filling the room. He leaned down closer to her face. "Francie." She stilled, but she didn't stop sobbing.

"M-mother," she mumbled. "He knows. He knows." Her brow furrowed sharply and she clutched her pillow, writhing, biting it. "He knows…he knows…." The last word trailed off into a muffled wail and her body shook with fresh sobs.

Forrest had never met a heavier sleeper in his life, and didn't know how to wake her up short of dousing her with ice cold water. He wasn't sure if it was his own tiredness or the shots of corn he'd had, but inexplicably he found himself climbing into the bed and lying down next to her. He pulled her against his body so that her back was to his chest and he smoothed her thick, wavy black hair away from her face, streaking tears across her skin as he did.

"Shh," he whispered into her ear. "Shh." She mumbled something unintelligible back to him, calming almost instantly when he gathered her body against his. The thought occurred to him that he wanted to touch her. His body craved for more, but in this moment, he just wanted to know what her skin felt like under his fingertips, if it was as smooth and soft as it always looked. His mind shouted for him to stop, that he was crossing a line, but his hand moved of its own accord, ignoring his mind completely.

His large hand pressed gently against her abdomen, feeling the smooth satin material of her slip. He marveled to himself that his entire hand could almost span her waist from side to side. He ran his hand slowly over her stomach, over her ribs and down past her navel, realizing just how thin her nightie was since he could feel her body heat through it. His hand stopped near the top of her pubic bone abruptly, realizing what he was about to start touching if he didn't check himself.

He gave himself a stern, wordless warning to behave, though he felt himself starting to get unbelievably hard. With the way he held her body against his own, he knew she must be able to feel it against the back of her thighs. He ran his hand upward, making contact with the smooth skin over her sternum. The nightie was extremely low cut and he was sorely tempted to slip a hand inside it but again he resisted, trailing his fingers lightly against the skin between her breasts instead. He stopped, listening to her breathing, and it was deep and even. He could feel the muscles of her body relax against his caresses, so he decided to keep going. He wasn't sure what he would do or say if she woke in his arms; he only hoped she wouldn't slap him.

It had been so long – _so long_ – since he'd touched a woman like this. Since he'd _wanted_ to touch a woman like this. He thought of Maggie again, and for a moment, she was the owner of the body he held. He pictured her lying in his arms as she had done so many nights, and pain surged through his heart again.

Then, he felt the body he was holding shift slightly and freeze, and it brought him back rapidly to the moment he was in. It wasn't Maggie; it was Francie. Francie hadn't left him – but Maggie had. Francie needed him, and he was here for her, the way he hadn't been there for Maggie.

And then Francie suddenly sucked in a startled breath and all of her muscles tensed up – but she didn't say a word.

She lay perfectly still, with his hand still on her hip bone and his hardness still pressed into her backside. Forrest was dimly aware of his heart pounding inside his chest plate, and knew he'd been caught, but he didn't want to move, and strangely, he sensed that she didn't want him to move either. He was certain she was awake, but her eyes were closed and still. He tentatively ran his hand across her abdomen again, and she remained motionless, but if she was trying to play at being asleep, she had failed – her increasingly heavy breathing was giving her away. He pressed a hand against her sternum again, and felt it resonate with the hard, swift beat of her heart. Still, she was quiet – could it be she wanted him to touch her like this?

He ran his fingertips over the top of one breast and back again; it took everything in him to avoid her nipple. He ran his hand slowly back down her front, over one hipbone first before trailing his hand to the other. He was avidly aware now that her breathing had become almost ragged, the sound of it turning him on more and more, and she was practically quivering in his arms though she was almost rigid from the effort of holding still. For his part, he couldn't remember a time in his life where he had gotten so turned on from touching a woman, _over_ her clothing, and not hitting any of the major areas. He slid a hand down the hip bone closest to him, his fingers finally crossing the border of the hem of the thin nightie onto the smooth skin of her thigh. He followed the line of her tensed quadriceps toward her knee, then brought his fingers back the other way, upward. When he reached the hem, he slipped his fingers underneath it, drawing his fingers over the skin of her hips and pulling her nightie up as he went so he could finally touch her skin. His manhood strained when he felt no interruption of her smooth skin by the hindrance of drawers.

He moved his hand down her hip and pressed it to her soft lower belly, in the no man's land between her navel and her pelvis. He flattened his hand against her skin, battling himself to not dip his fingers down between her thighs like he desperately wanted to. Instead, he followed the same pattern upward as before, except this time, he was actually touching her skin. He felt himself grow harder than he could ever remember at the feel of her satiny skin against his rough fingertips. He knew he should probably be quite embarrassed that she could feel his excitement against her, but he found he couldn't really be concerned with that, and she seemed to not be, either.

His fingers paused just above her rib cage. He gently stroked the bottom of each breast with a finger, satisfied when he heard her gasp softly, before trailing his hand back down her smooth, flat stomach. Again, his hand stopped just above her soft, fleshy mound. His fingers twitched as he paused.

Her breathing was quieter now, but he could see her chest heaving and he could feel her racing pulse hammering below her skin. He slipped his hand down lower, and she held her breath. The tips of his fingers just brushed her soft mound as he grasped the hem of her nightie and pulled it gently down, covering her back up.

His own pulse was racing, as fast as his head was spinning. It had to be the corn, he reasoned with himself. He rarely drank, and three shots of straight, lightning-sharp moonshine on a mostly empty stomach had gone straight to his head. He'd never be so bold otherwise. And Francie – well, she'd just wanted the comfort of someone strong beside her, that was all. That was it, he told himself. He was drunk off corn and she off fear. Nothing more, nothing less. And he was a man – what man wouldn't want to hold a beautiful woman against his own body and feel silky soft skin under his hand? It was perfectly natural. He wasn't harming her, he was soothing her. She hadn't asked him to stop, after all. She needed comfort, and finally, finally, he'd found a way to give it. And that was all it was. He nodded firmly to himself, then felt her backside roll back into his pelvis when she moved a little. He bit back a groan as he felt himself harden anew. Now, if only he could convince his goddamn pecker of the same thing.

His hand returned to its original resting place, over the top of her nightie on her stomach. He would stay only as long as it took her to fall back asleep, and then he would go to his own bedroom where he belonged. For a long time, she stayed tensed against him though his hands were still now. It took his cock a little longer to calm itself down, as he seemed to be unable to think of anything besides the fact that she was naked under her little slip and he'd touched skin he'd only thought about and never seen. But he'd already done far too much, thanks to the 'shine, and knew it could never happen again, not if he really wanted her to trust him. And damned if he did; he couldn't explain why he did, but he did – he wanted her trust. Then maybe she might open up to him a bit more. Though why he wanted _that,_ he couldn't even begin to guess at.

He felt her warm body gradually loosen up in his arms, and after a long, quiet period, her breathing had evened out and deepened. He figured that she was asleep now, and it was the perfect time to move. But then again, his whirling mind reasoned, she'd only _just_ fallen asleep. If he tried to get up now, he would likely jostle her back awake.

Somewhere in the midst of him arguing with himself, he fell asleep too, still holding her to his chest. When dawn began to creep through the window, golden rays of morning spilling out across the wooden floor, he jerked himself awake and realized he'd slept in her bed with her for at least three hours. He glanced down at her quickly, seeing she was still sound asleep in exactly the same position she'd been in – right against him.

_Get your ass out of this bed, Bondurant_, he thought harshly. He carefully extracted his arm from underneath her head and shifted off the bed as gently as he could. She remained asleep, and he stole out of her bedroom, shutting the door behind him before making his way to his own. He shut his own door and sat down on the edge of his bed, gripping his head in his hands as he tried to make sense of what had happened, what he'd done. It was the 'shine, he thought firmly. It was the 'shine.

Deep down, he knew it wasn't the 'shine.

"Christ," he mumbled.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

When Francie woke up the next morning, she had no idea where she was for a moment, and she cowered under the covers of the bed she was in, assailed by confusion and fright.

Gradually, bits and pieces of the previous night came back to her, and she remembered that she was at Blackwater Station, the Bondurants' place of business, in the guest bedroom. Forrest had brought her here after saving her not once, but twice last night. _How weak he must think me_, she thought sadly.

Her face ached where she'd been hit during both occurrences, with the two drunks and with the detective who had unexpectedly shown up at her door. Why certain men felt it was acceptable and necessary to slap a woman around, she would never understand, and she felt anger. She had just finished healing physically from the abuse of her apparently still living fiancé, and now she had more injuries to deal with. She didn't even want to look in the mirror but knew she would have to at some point. She dreaded what she would see.

The events of the previous night whirled through her mind, threatening to overwhelm her. It was a bit too much to handle, but unbidden, memories came flooding back to her. When the juke had closed, and she had finished cleaning up in the way Miz Judy showed her she liked her to do, Francie had gone out the storage door, not wanting to spend another moment walking around in the stifling room to navigate the stairs into the store to exit through the front. She had gone straight through the storage door into the night air, sucking in lungfuls of sweet, crisp fresh air and for a moment, she'd stood still, smiling up into the velvety black sky at the stars and enjoying the buzz of crickets and the hoots of the owls. Then she'd decided she'd kept Forrest waiting for her long enough and walked toward the corner of the building to come along the side until she reached the front. She hated to admit it, but this was the part of the evening she looked forward to the most. Though she and Forrest rarely spoke, she found his quiet presence comforting and calming after a hectic night of waiting on loud, drunken people in the juke. They weren't necessarily uncomfortable silences; she was usually too tired and sleepy to talk and he was always content to remain quiet unless she spoke to him first. And being in the small cab of the truck with him was enough for her – she could smell him to her heart's content and enjoy the way his large frame took up plenty of space. She had come to realize just how much she enjoyed his masculinity.

But as she had rounded the corner, two dark shadows were waiting for her. She'd frozen for just a moment, feeling confusion and panic, and then when she recognized them, she'd tried to lunge between them, to escape their grasping hands. She had just opened her mouth to scream Forrest's name, but it was cut off and went no further than the palm of the hand that clamped around her face. The rest was a blur – she remembered being thrust against the wall of the store, hands fumbling at her dress. The hand over her mouth never let up and squeezed painfully around her face. She remembered the sharp smell of alcohol all around her and the rank odor of unwashed skin. Her face had been stricken, cutting her lip, and her dress had been torn. Though she had been living it and experiencing it first hand, she had still been unable to grasp the reality of what was happening to her – certainly they wouldn't take it any further, she told herself over and over, even when the skirt of her dress had been shoved up to her thighs, revealing her stockings, garters, and drawers.

And then like magic, as though the Lord himself had intervened, she'd heard a familiar low, rich voice, the sweetest noise her ears could have ever heard in that moment. She couldn't hear what he said, but whatever it was had been enough for her assailants to release her. She didn't even recall Forrest calling her to him; she had just run to him like he was the only safe haven she'd ever known or would know. The only thing that had been able to make her tune into his words was hearing the word "honey" escape his lips – directed at her. It flabbergasted her now, but also filled her with warmth. Forrest had called her "honey". _"Pull your dress together, honey,"_ he'd said, his low, deep voice full of calm. Who could have ever imagined that he would be capable of such a sweet utterance? She'd seen the menacing look on his face as he directed his attention to the remaining assailant, as the one called Rufus had turned tail and fled almost as soon as he'd laid eyes on Forrest. Francie had been almost nervous for Ben, fearing what Forrest might do, but he'd told her to go wait in the truck, and she did.

When he'd carried her up the stairs to her room, she had known that she should be embarrassed by her own behavior, but she couldn't help it – he'd been holding her so closely, tucked so carefully in his arms, that she had been unable to resist gathering up his shirt in her free hand and taking deep, greedy breaths against his chest. His aroma was intoxicating to her and now she was close _and _conscious to truly enjoy it. There had been a moment…at her door. She had turned to ask for her key, but the words had stuck in her throat. Forrest had been looking at her face, her mouth, so closely, as though nothing else in that hallway existed except for her two lips. At first she had wondered if she hadn't gotten all of the blood off her face, but there was unmistakably a look of hunger in his eyes, an almost wistful desire that made her stomach churn in a funny way. But she'd been too timid, too unsure, to do anything but shyly ask for her key back.

She had almost felt all right, all things considered, as she had been changing for bed when a heavy fist had knocked at her door. She had wondered, foolishly, whether it was Forrest and had scampered to the door, forgetting that she was in her nightie and robe, and opened it. Instead of Forrest's handsome face, she saw a man, a well-dressed, meticulously groomed, somewhat heavyset man, wearing an expensive suit. He had all but leered at her, and without any warning, he'd shoved his way into her room, shutting and locking the door behind him. He'd introduced himself as one Detective Chester Rollins from New Orleans, and he'd told her that she was in a whole heap of trouble.

He knew everything, Francie was horrified to discover, including the secret that had spurred Thomas Lattimore to try and kill her. Oh, and her loving fiancé, as it turned out, Francie thought bitterly, was alive and recuperating in the hospital.

"You missed his heart by a fraction of an inch," the good detective had said merrily. "How about that?"

He had tried to make Francie come back with him to face her punishment. Jail time, he insisted, but Francie knew it was death. Even if she did get tucked away into the state penitentiary and somehow avoided hanging, the Lattimores would send someone, pay someone, to kill her. She knew it in her bones. So naturally, she had refused to accompany him. And for the second time that night, she found herself immersed in a violent scuffle that included getting struck by a man twice her size, and ended with Forrest coming to her rescue – again.

She hadn't even cared that she was still only in her nightie. She had done as he had told her, and packed up all of her belongings, and rushed outside. The drive to the station was a blur. Being led by him to this guest bedroom had been a blur. Even her sleep that had finally come to claim her after a long time of frightened, hopeless tears, had been restless and full of nightmares, though she couldn't recall what any of them had been about now. She just knew she had felt frightened, and alone, and tormented.

And then…

And then. Francie's cheeks warmed and flushed as something came back to her in a rush. She hadn't been sure – was even now uncertain – if she was awake or dreaming still, dreaming a very pleasant, realistic dream. But Forrest – Forrest had been in bed with her. He'd been pressed to her back, his thick, sinewy arms wrapped tight around her, and he'd been touching her skin. Francie bit her lip as her blush deepened. He'd been touching her flesh most sensuously, far more sensuously than she would have thought a man like him, so rough and full of brute force, could be capable of. But touch her he had, his fingers gliding like velvet over her skin, touching her so very intimately, but without violating her. And when she'd either woken up or began to immerse herself in the dream, his touches had set her senses ablaze and desire, _need_, such as she had never experienced in her life, had flooded her. She had wanted him, so much, to touch her in a manner that perhaps women more decent and proper than she was would call violation. But he hadn't. The dancing his fingers had done around those areas had made her core throb and moisten, but what had compounded that overwhelmingly lustful feeling was that she could feel his need for her, too. It was a hard, thick mound against her backside, and yet another testament to his supreme _maleness_. She had wanted him to take her, wanted him to act on his obvious desire to take her, but she had been too scared to let him know. In fact, she had hoped he still believed she was asleep. She had tried to lie as still as possible, but she could do nothing to help her heavy breaths, the slight trembling of her body, the heated temperature of her skin. The pounding of her heart.

Gradually, his touches had slowly ceased, and for a long time she held still, wondering what he would do next. When it became clear that he meant to do nothing at all, Francie couldn't fight the exhaustion that flowed over her again, and hoped that he would stay where he was. If he wouldn't take her, then she wanted him to just be close to her.

But now, her bed was empty. The side that he had occupied was cool; there was no telling how long ago he had left her. Then again, there was no telling if she had dreamed the encounter or if it had really taken place. And she was so tired and mentally drained that she wasn't at all surprised to realize she was having difficulty separating reality and – well, fantasy.

Reluctantly, she sat up and climbed out of bed. It was a crude construction of wood and nails, but it was sturdy and the mattress was surprisingly soft, the sheets fresh and clean. The quilt she'd been wrapped up in was old, to be sure, but it had been stitched and sewn together with skill and care, and Francie wouldn't be surprised if it lasted a hundred years.

She made her way to the window and looked out, seeing grassy fields as far as her eye reached. The sun's glare was softened to a golden haze as heavy gray clouds started to roll in without completely obscuring it. For now, at least. Francie opened the window and took a deep breath. Though she'd been raised in luxury, she had also been raised on a plantation in the country, and she could smell the oncoming storm in the air. It would likely be tonight. Though her troubles and fear weighed heavily on her heart, she couldn't help but admire the view of nature in front of her. She loved the city and would _always_ love the city, but the quiet, peaceful stillness of the country would always have her heart. Out here, she felt that she had nothing at all to be afraid of, that nothing could or would ever find her or hurt her out here. She could be free to be herself, her true self, without fear of persecution for being as such.

She came back to earth with a start, hearing a light knock on her door. She remembered exactly where she was and hurried to pull on her robe. She stood near the door. "Yes?" she called hesitantly.

"Miss Francie?"

It was Jack. She would know that friendly voice anywhere. She hid behind the door to hide her undress and opened it just a crack.

"Good morning," she greeted him softly.

"Mornin'," he replied, his eyes slowly going over her face, cataloguing all of her wounds. A frown creased his face. "I heard 'bout your troubles last night, I sure am sorry. Do you – do you want to have your face looked at?"

Francie remembered herself and patted her sore cheek self-consciously. Though she was sure she looked frightful, she didn't think anything had been broken or lacerated badly enough to require stitches. She tried to smile for Jack's benefit.

"No, I'm quite all right," she assured him. "But thank you."

"Well, I didn't mean to disturb you none. I just come up here to tell you that there's some breakfast down there for you if you feel up to eatin' it."

"Breakfast?" Francie repeated in surprise, her stomach instantly coming to life with interest.

"Yep. Forrest is a pretty decent cook. He usually handles all the customers during the week. We're closed for business just now but he cooks for us on the weekend mornings sometimes. Howard makes the coffee." Jack glanced over his shoulder, then leaned in conspiratorially to whisper to her. "Be glad Forrest made the coffee this mornin'."

Francie giggled despite herself. "Forrest cooks and Howard makes the coffee. What do you do, Jack?"

"I set the table," he said proudly. "And I do the dishes."

"Well, all right, then," Francie said. "Let me get dressed and I will be down shortly."

Francie shut the door when he left and glanced at her suitcase. She opened it and pulled out a simple pale blue dress with a tiny print of dark pink rosebuds. The dress was one of her favorites; it brought out the bright blue of her eyes and the color of the roses exactly matched the natural shade of her mouth. She changed out of her nightie and into the dress, then approached the mirror on the wooden vanity across the room with hesitation. She took a deep breath and studied herself, wincing slightly. She had a large dark bruise on one side of her forehead, along with a lump. There was another dark shadow across one cheekbone. It wasn't very dark, but it was extremely sore to the touch – the kind of bruise that took root deep in the bone rather than the flesh. There was a small dark bruise next to her nose where the detective had struck her, and there was still a bit of dried blood in her nostril. Her lower lip was a little swollen on one side, with a small gash that had already formed a slight scab. She sighed.

"Let's see what you can do, Francesca," she murmured to herself. She arranged her hair to sweep over the side of her forehead with the bruise and carefully pinned it up. The straightening treatments she had used previously had all but gone from her hair, and it was now back to its normal state of thick, large and unruly black curls. One curly lock refused to stay in its pin, so she gave up and left it alone. She cleaned the dried blood from her sore nose, then carefully pressed powder to her face. It wouldn't mask the marks entirely, but it lightened them slightly. She studied her lip. There wasn't much she could do about that, so she quickly applied petroleum jelly and gave up, heading for the door.

Now that she was a bit more rested and calm, she could take notice of her surroundings. The upstairs area of the station was nothing but wood and walls, but there was one door across from her room, and she presumed that was where Forrest slept. There was a long, steep staircase before her that led down, so she carefully took a hold of the hand railing and slowly made her way down. As she got closer to the floor, she heard Jack's and Howard's voices, the sound of wood scraping against metal, the clattering of dishes. She could smell bacon frying and the heavy, rich aroma of freshly perked coffee. It made her mouth water.

Her stomach churned with nervousness at the idea of facing Forrest this morning, but nevertheless she descended the stairs until she reached the lower level. She stopped when she got close enough to hear their conversation, and pressed herself against the wall to avoid being seen.

"…shocked as hell you brought her back here, little brother," Howard was saying. Francie heard Forrest grunt in reply but say nothing. "Seems to me like you two don't know whether to fuck each other stupid or blow each other's brains out! Now you want her livin' under the same roof?"

Francie pressed a hand to her mouth in mortification as she simultaneously heard a metallic clatter. She imagined Forrest had slammed whatever pan he was cooking in back onto the stove.

"Why don't you mind your own goddamn business, then?" Forrest growled. "I already told you, Howard. First she almost got raped by two drunks, then some city-slicker shows up at her door to slap her around and make threats. I wasn't going to let her stay there while that piece of shit came back to finish what it was he set out to do."

"Now, I ain't sayin' you were wrong for helpin' her out," Howard replied. "Shit, I like her as much as you. Well, not probably _quite_ so much." His voice sounded sly. "And I don't want to see nothin' bad happen to the little darlin'. She seems like a sweet gal, and she is damn pretty to look at too. But you don't know what sort of trouble she got herself mixed up in back there in New Orleans, and you don't what it is you done brought to our door, Forrest. That's all I'm sayin'."

"So what is it you suggest I do then, Brother Howard?" Forrest asked, and his voice was dangerously low and sharp.

"Now, Forrest, don't go gettin' your temper up," Howard insisted. "I ain't tellin' you to kick her out and send her on her way, nothin' like that. Nothin' like that a'tall. In fact, I do feel some satisfaction that you've taken up an interest in women again. I thought your pecker and your heart both done left you when Maggie did." Forrest growled again, and Francie wondered who Maggie was as she blushed furiously. "So I'm glad that Miss Abellard's around if for no other reason than to show you that there is life after you get your little ol' heart broken. I'm just sayin' – we gon' have to be a little more alert, now, ain't we? You let that city-slicker go, and even though you probably broke his face in forty places, we all know he'll be back."

"Let him come back, then," Jack chimed in. "He wants Miss Francie, he gon' have to come through us."

"Come through you?" Howard repeated. "Jack, the wind could knock you down on a clear day with no breeze."

"Fuck you, Howard," Jack shot back.

"Both of you, shut up," Forrest drawled. "Look, Howard, unlike you, I think with my head and not my cock. That don't have shit to do with anything. I'm aware of what the implications are of our situation. All right?"

"As you say, Brother Forrest," Howard said. "Although, you _might_ try thinkin' with your cock a bit more'n you do now. Might make you have a more pleasant disposition."

"Good morning," Francie said loudly, walking into the dining room with heavy steps to signal her approach. She had heard about all she could stand. As she walked in, the three brothers snapped their heads toward her, all of their faces wearing an expression of some degree of guiltiness.

"Good morning, you sweet thing," Howard replied smoothly. "Welcome to our humble abode."

"You look right pretty, Miss Francie," Jack added. "Can hardly tell that you had any – uh," he gestured at his face awkwardly.

"Funny, I can hardly tell that you have any tact," Howard said to his baby brother wryly. Jack glared.

"Fu –"

"Have a seat," Howard interrupted him, smiling widely at Francie. He patted the chair next to him at the small table he was sitting at. "We was just about to eat some grub. Cooked by none other than my brother Forrest, here."

"Ah, thank you," Francie said, lowering herself into her chair. She hadn't spent much time around only men, and certainly not men as rough as the Bondurants. She almost wanted to laugh at the thought that just a couple of months ago, she was part of high-society New Orleans, socializing in the finest establishments, eating the most gourmet of meals, rubbing elbows with highest of society. Now, she was sitting in an old gas station with three grubby men, eating a simple breakfast of bacon and eggs. She was a far cry from eating beignets and drinking _café au lait_ in the French Quarter, of that she could be sure.

Forrest placed a plate in front of her, and she glanced up at him. His pewter eyes met hers for just an instant before he looked away and headed back to the stove. She stared at his back, wondering what was going through his mind, wondering if she had been dreaming or if he had really spent the better part of an hour caressing her body in her bed last night.

"Where's mine?" Howard demanded.

"Get off your ass and get it yourself." Forrest returned to the table holding two mugs of coffee and balancing his plate on his forearm. He set everything down on the table and then took a seat. Without looking at her, he slid a mug toward Francie.

"Thank you," she murmured, reaching out to take the handle. Her fingers brushed the back of his hand and for a moment, they both froze. Francie cut her eyes at Forrest, her fingers tingling from the contact with his rough skin. Forrest's eyes shifted sharply toward their hands, and then he carefully slid his out from underneath hers, wrapping it around his own mug. His eyes shifted to his plate and his jaw clenched.

Fortunately, Howard was still at the stove and Jack was just returning from it, so the entire exchange went unnoticed. Jack took the seat right next to Francie and grinned at her, before shoveling in a forkful of eggs.

"Miss Francie –"

"Jack, don't talk with your mouth full," she chastised softly. He looked at her in surprise, and she felt the eyes of the other two brothers on her as well. "And you didn't say grace."

Jack quickly swallowed his mouthful of eggs. "Grace?"

"Yes. Howard, are you almost ready?" Francie glanced over to where Howard was all but gaping at them, holding his plate.

"Yes," he replied, sounding confused.

"Then please join us at the table, and we'll say grace before we eat," Francie said gently. She wanted to smile a little at the confused expressions on their faces. Forrest had not done much more than sip his coffee but he looked at her with mild surprise as he set his mug down. Howard slowly slid into his seat, setting his plate on the surface in front of him. When he was settled, Francie reached both of her hands out, one toward Jack and the other toward Forrest.

"Take hands," she ordered softly. "All of you." She watched, amused, as the brothers frowned at each other, making no move to take each other's hands or hers. She slipped one hand into Jack's, taking him by surprise. She glanced at Forrest, who was still staring down at his plate. She bit her lip, but then quickly maneuvered her hand into his. He glanced at her sharply, but she looked at Howard.

"Take your brothers' hands, please, Howard," she said. With an annoyed growl, Howard unceremoniously grabbed his brothers' hands. Forrest glared at him murderously, but Francie squeezed his hand a little to get his attention. "Bow your heads, please." France bowed her own head and closed her eyes, giving them a quick moment to do the same.

"Lord, we come before You this morning with bowed heads and humble hearts. We thank You for all of the blessings You have given us though we are not worthy of them. We ask that You will forgive us our sins and continue to protect us and shield us in Your love. We thank You for this meal and for bringing us all together on this day. In Your most holy and righteous name, we pray. Amen."

She spoke the prayer softly and unconsciously squeezed the hands she held. When she opened her eyes, she was surprised to see that each of the men had bowed their heads, and even Forrest had closed his eyes. He opened them and lifted his head when Francie slowly released his hand. He looked at her, his eyes moving back and forth between hers as though he were trying to read her mind. She lowered her eyes and smiled at him politely before turning her attention to her plate.

"That was – real nice, Miss Francie," Jack said, resuming shoveling eggs into his mouth. "We don't never pray before meals."

"We used to," Howard said. "A long time ago."

"When Ma and Pa were alive," Jack said. "Ma, she would tan our hides if we so much as took a sip of water without prayin' before mealtimes."

"Oh?" Francie asked, delicately spearing an egg with her fork. She took a small bite, apprehensive about tasting a man's cooking, but found that they were light, fluffy, and buttery, with just the right amount of salt. She glanced at Forrest and saw that he was watching her with an almost smug look on his face. "And what happened to your Ma and Pa?"

"They're deceased," Jack replied. "'Bout thirteen, fourteen years ago. Spanish Lady."

"I'm terribly sorry," Francie said sincerely. "For your loss."

"Thanks," Jack said quietly, and Howard nodded silently. Francie could easily see that the brothers had not quite ever gotten over the loss of their parents, and she took that to be a testament to their closeness. "Where, uh – where did you learn to pray like that?"

"I was raised Baptist," Francie said. "My father and I prayed before every meal. I still do."

"Like at Sunday dinner?" Jack asked. He smiled at his brothers, ignoring the fact that neither of them returned it. "When we was kids we used to have Sunday dinner. I was real little but I still remember it. My Pa would fry up chicken like you wouldn't believe. And I do believe my Mama was the best cook that ever lived."

"I bet she was," Francie replied, smiling at the young man's enthusiasm. "We had Sunday dinner too, of course. It wasn't quite like what you had."

"What did you have, Miss Francie?" Howard surprised her by speaking up quietly.

"Well, in New Orleans we had things like crawfish étouffée, oysters right from the Gulf, shrimp. Jambalaya. Gumbo." Involuntarily her mouth began to water, despite the plate of eggs and bacon in front of her. "Mondays we had red beans and rice. For breakfast we had beignets and _café au lait _with chicory."

Jack looked amazed. "I don't understand not one word you just said."

"Me either," Howard confessed with a chuckle.

"Those are Creole dishes," Francie said with a smile. "Lots of French inspiration. Lots of rice, and seafood. Spices."

"I hope I live long enough to taste some of that," Jack said wistfully.

Francie put her hands on her hips, though she was sitting down. "You mean to tell me you've never tasted crawfish étouffée? I know you have crawfish in Virginia. You're telling me that no one in this benighted town knows how to make a proper étouffée?"

"Reckon that person might be you," Forrest said, surprising her with his words. He'd been sitting silently, listening to the banter around him, and Francie couldn't help but wonder if they'd been annoying him. But as she glanced at him, he seemed interested in their talk, if unwilling to admit it.

Francie rose to her feet. "Where do you keep your kitchen supplies?" Forrest pointed and she marched behind the bar, looking over the cooking area. She was pleased to see that he'd invested in an icebox. She catalogued the ingredients that he currently had on hand and what else she would need to make them the dish. Crawfish étouffée had always been one of her favorite meals and she simply couldn't abide the fact that none of them had ever tasted it.

She turned to face them with a smile on her face. "Who wants to drive me to town for some groceries and then to a lake to get some crawfish?" she asked. "I'm going to prepare you a Sunday dinner New Orleans-style."


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Happy Monday to you all. I realized that I hinted at but never mentioned the fate of Beauregard Fontaine in the early parts of this story - escaped my notice, and apologies to you all. I've included it in this chapter. Enjoy. Besos!**

**Chapter 12**

When his annoying little brother swept out of the station with Francie, talking her ear off about where to catch the best crawfish and how he would carry all of her groceries for her, Forrest sighed to himself. Howard had taken off to go check on the stills and no doubt sample the product to make sure it was "up to snuff" as he liked to say. Forrest liked to keep the station closed on Sunday except for those interested in making a purchase, so he shuffled around the room collecting breakfast dishes and carrying them to the sink to wash them up.

On his way over to the sink, he noticed a flash of silver out of the corner of his eye, on the floor near the door. He walked over to it and knelt down, retrieving a delicate silver chain with a small pendant attached to it. It was a woman's necklace, and the clasp was broken.

He held it up to his face to see it better. Part of the chain looked as though it had melted a little, and the pendant – what appeared to be a locket now that he could see it up close – look scorched, as though the entire thing had been burned in a fire. He examined the clasp and saw that the fire damage the piece of jewelry had obviously endured had caused it to melt also, becoming loose and ineffective. Women typically didn't come around the station much, and based on the fact that the locket felt warm to the touch meant that it had been worn very recently. Since there was only one woman in their midst as of late, he surmised that it couldn't belong to anyone other than Francie. He couldn't recall if he'd ever seen the locket around her neck before, but realized that he'd never really paid close attention if she'd worn it, anyway. He couldn't imagine why she'd hold onto something that was melted and faulty, but women did set a store by sentimental things.

The dishes forgotten for the moment, he carried the necklace into his office and sat down at his desk. He looked over the clasp, wondering how it could be fixed. From what he could tell, the fire had caused the metal to soften a little as to lose the shape needed to hold the clasp in place. If he could tighten it again, perhaps it would stay put when she wore it next. He used a few small tools, managing to tighten it more to his satisfaction, but he thought that as long as she wasn't so keen on this particular chain, she'd do better to get a brand new one.

Once he was sure the clasp would stay put, he carried the locket upstairs to the guest bedroom. He hesitated for a moment, feeling a little uncertain about entering the room even though he owned the place. In his mind, the room belonged to her now, just the way it had belonged to Maggie when she had stayed here so long ago. After a moment, he pushed into the room, and immediately her scent washed over him.

It was a light fragrance, one that happened to cling to her hair and to her body. It was an aroma of fragrant flowers, the clean scent of the light powder she sometimes wore, and the expensive toilet water she was fond of applying to herself every now and then. His eyes swept the room, noticing that her bed was neatly made up and her suitcase was open on the foot of the bed. He glanced at it, seeing the mounds of silk, wool, satin and cotton askew, providing a sharp contrast to the neat state of her bedding and also a memory of the frantic state in which she'd been forced to flee the boarding house last night. That reminded him. He'd need to go see old man Macready soon to square her books and officially check her out of the place. He didn't want any open ends with her there.

He crossed the room and set the locket gently on top of the vanity. The piece of furniture had been crafted for his mother by his father as a wedding gift and somehow it had ended up in this room. He saw that Francie had wasted little time settling into the room, seeing an array of her cosmetics laid out, as well as a bottle of her favorite perfume and an ivory-handled hair brush. He was about to set the locket down, but suddenly he was overcome with curiosity – a feeling he rarely experienced as he believed everyone should mind his own business. But he was curious nonetheless. He knew that people tended to keep pictures of loved ones inside lockets, and as he squeezed the trinket unconsciously in his fist, he couldn't stop wondering who it was that Francie kept close to her heart. He replayed the conversation he'd overheard between her and the man in her room last night – he'd heard enough to infer that someone she'd thought was dead – perhaps someone she'd tried to kill herself – hadn't died, and that she was in trouble and a candidate for jail. Had it been a man? Forrest hated himself for the slight twinge of jealousy he felt – yet another feeling completely foreign to him.

After another moment spent staring at the locket, Forrest went against his better judgment and popped it open. It was small and his fingers were large, but he managed it and brought it up to his face. Momentary surprise washed over him as he took in the picture. It wasn't a man at all, but a woman. A colored woman, who appeared to also have some Native blood, perhaps, as well as African. He tilted his head. At first, he didn't know why Francie would carry around a picture of a woman, but as he studied the picture a little more, the woman's face began to look almost familiar to him. Something about the jet black curly hair; the curve of the cheekbones, the shape of the face.

The lips.

The woman in the picture possessed a pair of lips that were extremely familiar to him; the pouty shape, the fleshy lip, the Cupid's Bow. These were the same lips that haunted his dreams and drew his eye whenever he was near them. These were the same lips, on a different woman, that he longed to taste, whether he admitted it to himself or not.

He studied the rest of the woman's face – the enormous eyes, though this woman had very dark eyes. The shade of the skin that, in a color photo, he knew would be of the same hue as Francie's though a few shades darker. Probably just as creamy and smooth. Maybe as soft. For what seemed an eternity he scanned the woman's face, over and over.

Forrest wasn't an unintelligent man by any stretch of the imagination. He knew who he was looking at – Francie's mother.

:O:O:O:

Francie forced a smile as Jack continued to chatter at her as she started slicing apples for a pie. The étouffée wouldn't take very long to prepare, so she began the tedious task of peeling and slicing apples. She had wanted to make bananas foster to complete the traditional meal of her home state, but she had been unable to find bananas within the town. Plus, according to Jack, apple pie was the unspoken favorite among the brothers.

As soon as they had returned from their little adventure, Francie had thrown the crawfish into the icebox and immediately began in on the apples. She was sweaty and a mess from being outside, she was sure, but she would have to tidy herself up later. Forrest was in his little office going over his books, his back to her and Jack. She wasn't quite sure where Howard was.

She kept her face neutral, but inside she was crying. Somehow, she had lost her locket. She hadn't taken it off since she'd replaced it around her neck although the clasp was loose and had an exasperating habit of slipping off. However, at some point when they were gathering the crawfish, she'd realized it was no longer around her neck. It must have come loose and fallen in the tall grass or, worse, the lake. It was gone forever, and with it went the only memento of her mother that she had.

She felt the burn of tears at her eyes and focused on what Jack was saying to prevent herself from actually crying. She could only imagine the startled look on his face if she suddenly burst into tears as he talked at length of Bertha Minnix and his affections for her. The thought and mental image of his face in that moment helped keep the tears at bay; despite herself, she wanted to laugh. _What a wreck I am,_ she thought.

"Where'd you learn to cook so good, Miss Francie? I dunno if Bertha can cook. We ain't never really talked about that. I sure hope so, though. I can't cook at all and if she can't either, well, we'll be starvin' together, I reckon."

"You should learn to cook, Jack," Francie said as she continued to slice apples. "It's very important for a man to be able to cook at least one meal."

"I guess that's always been Forrest, although he can cook a whole lot more'n one meal. He's a right good cook, he is. When Howard went off to the Great War, it was Forrest who took care of me after my folks died."

"You should take a lesson from him, then," Francie replied. "My father could cook. He showed me how to make some things, along with our cook who lived with us. My father always said to me, 'Even a privileged woman should know how to cook, because one day she'll have a husband to care for.' So I learned to cook because he said I should." She smiled a little at the memory of spending hours in the kitchen with their cook, learning to chop and peel and to fry and sauté. She had scores of recipes memorized, just as the women before her in her family had done.

"Did you – did you ever have a husband to care for?" Jack asked, almost hesitantly. He glanced at her ring finger, seeing it was bare. It had once been adorned with the large engagement ring Thomas had given her once upon a time, but that was gone now. It had been in the satchel that had been stolen from her in Atlanta. She did not particularly miss it.

"No," Francie answered quietly, suddenly aware that Forrest was within earshot. "I almost did, though. I had a fiancé."

"So you _did_ have you a sweetheart," Jack said. Then he blushed. "I mean nothin' by that, Miss Francie. I just thought that a lady as pretty as you had to have some fella in her life."

"I had a fiancé," Francie corrected. "I did not have a sweetheart." The words came out a little bitterly, and hung in the air as she began chopping the apples up. Jack's brow furrowed slightly in confusion.

"You had you a fiancé, but he wasn't your sweetheart?" he repeated. Out of the corner of her eye, Francie thought she saw Forrest turn slightly over his shoulder, as though he were trying to listen.

"That's right," Francie said softly, unpleasant feelings coursing through her. "I was betrothed to him because our fathers wanted us to be. They thought that it would be a good match. But I did not love him."

"You didn't love him?" Jack asked incredulously. "But – but why marry him then?"

Francie almost smiled in spite of herself at Jack's disbelief that a woman might enter into a loveless marriage. "My father thought it would be beneficial for me. My fiancé was a lawyer, part of a very old and well-respected family in New Orleans. He thought I would be set for life if I would marry him."

"So it was for money," Jack said. "Not love."

"That's right," Francie said. "And for status."

"Was he good to you, at least? Your fiancé." Jack stole one of her apple slices and popped it into his mouth.

Francie unconsciously clenched her jaw as she recalled Thomas's treatment of her. His insults, his roughness, his arrogance, his abuse. "No. He was not good to me." She brought her knife down into the next apple with force. "He was not good to me at all."

"Why didn't you tell your daddy? I bet he wouldn't have stood for no man treatin' his little girl any kinda way."

Francie smiled at him sadly. "I suppose I was too afraid to tell my father the truth. He wanted the world for me; I didn't want him to worry about what would become of me." She chopped some more. "For he was sick, you see. My father died last year. Of tuberculosis. I did not want to worry him about something…trivial."

Jack watched her for a moment. "Is that why you ran away?" he asked. "Because your fiancé wasn't good to you and your daddy died?"

Francie looked up at him sharply. "What makes you think I ran away?"

Jack looked at her almost sympathetically. "Why else would you come _here_ from a place like New Orleans?" he asked. "Unless you was tryin' to disappear."

Francie didn't answer him, suddenly feeling as though she had spoken completely out of turn. She chopped up the rest of the apples in silence, her mind whirling. Jack sensed the shift in her mood, and scuffed the toe of his boot against the floor.

"I – I'm sorry, Miss Francie," he said. "I didn't mean to make you think of unpleasant things. I pried, and I shouldn't have. That was awful rude of me."

Francie sighed and set down her knife, then patted Jack's hand. "It's all right, Jack. You did nothing wrong." She cleared her throat, casting about for a way to change the subject and lighten the mood. "Will you hand me that skillet? I'll show you how to cook these apples before we bake them. And bring me the sugar and the cinnamon, please."

When the pie was baking, and the étouffée was cooking, Francie took the opportunity to go upstairs to tidy herself up. She hoped that she had smoothed things over with Jack; she genuinely liked the boy and hadn't wanted to hurt his feelings with her sudden freezing up. He seemed fine when she had left him, having enjoyed watching her show him how to make the étouffée. He had even helped her a little bit.

Francie moved toward her vanity and stared at her reflection, feeling horror overtake her. She had spent too much time in the sun – her previously pale skin was now a light shade of golden, the darker pigment in her skin glowing in the soft sunlight creeping into her room through the window. She leaned closer, seeing a light smattering of freckles across the front of her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. They weren't dark, but a person wouldn't have to be _too_ close to her to see them. She bit her lip, wondering if Jack had noticed. Forrest had barely looked at her when they'd come back.

The thought of Forrest made her sigh. She was positive that he'd been in her bed with her last night, that it hadn't been a dream. She'd been thoroughly exhausted, to be sure, but so many things about the encounter were just simply _too real_ to have been a dream. The touch of his fingers, the warmth of his breath. She reddened, her cheeks going even ruddier in the mirror as she recalled something else that made it real. She could never have imagined into a dream what a man, thick and hard, would feel like against her backside. It was simply a feeling she was unfamiliar with, and even now, hours and hours later, she could recall the sensation with no difficulty whatsoever.

But he'd been distant that morning, and he was distant now. Perhaps, if it _had_ happened, he'd only been trying to offer her comfort, to soothe her. And he was a man, after all. Men tended to get aroused by the simplest, most meaningless things. It didn't mean he felt one way or another about her. Besides, there was some woman in the picture, somewhere – Maggie. Howard had said her name, someone who had been a part of Forrest's life or who was still. A former love, perhaps? A dead one? One who was away, but was planning to come back?

She wasn't sure why it mattered to her anyway. She told herself it didn't. Forrest was kind to protect her, to bring her into his home. That didn't mean he wanted anything from her, nor she from him. He told her he had a monetary interest in her. She was repaying him his loan, and he would see that nothing hindered that. He'd told her that very thing, to her face.

_All business_, she told herself, feeling a strange pang of sadness. Why should she feel sad about anything? She was safe for the time being – the Bondurants had a reputation in town, in the state, for being ruthless. She couldn't have asked for better protection. Still, a hollow, empty ache resonated in her stomach. She wasn't alone…but she couldn't have felt lonelier than she did now. She met her own eyes in the mirror again, eyes that her father had loved, and studied her newly golden skin, her freckles, her unruly black curls. With just the slight darkening of her skin, her mother's blood was evident in her face now, and Francie realized that now that she no longer had her locket, her reflection might be the only remnants of Leticia's beloved face she would have.

The thought of the locket made her heart ache and her eyes burn again, and now that she was alone in her room, she indulged herself a little in her own sorrow and squeezed her eyes shut, her brow furrowing as she allowed the tears to flow. That piece of jewelry was monumentally significant in her life – it represented a woman she'd never known but loved dearly, and it had also been the catalyst for getting out of a life she had never wanted to be a part of. It had also caused astronomical problems, and as she thought about her actions in New Orleans, new despair fell over her and she wept.

Presently, she came back to herself and opened her eyes, the unreleased tears she'd cried flowing out of her eyes and down her cheeks as she struggled to regain control of herself. Her vision blurred from the veil of tears and she used her fingers to brush them away. _That's enough_, she thought, eyeing herself sternly in the mirror. _You look a mess, and now it's obvious you've been crying. That's quite enough, now._ She took a deep breath to steady herself, gripping the edge of the vanity and frowning down at it as she willed her eyes to stop burning.

Suddenly she froze, noticing for the first time a small object laid neatly among her things. She hadn't noticed it, hadn't even glanced down until now. Her fingers reached down and carefully plucked the object from her cosmetics and toilet water, holding it up to her face in wonder. It was her locket.

She examined it, seeing it was clasped, and she tugged on it gently, surprised that it didn't come apart as easily as it had before. The chain was still melted in some areas and it was still scorched, but the clasp had obviously been intentionally fixed by someone.

_Forrest_.

She must have dropped the necklace before she left the station, and he'd retrieved it, fixed it, and returned it. For a moment, she was touched, knowing that Forrest would never know how much such a small gesture meant to her. She eagerly opened the locket to look upon her mother's face, realizing how close she'd come to never being able to do so again. She studied the familiar beautiful face, smiling gently, until a sudden terrible thought fell over her like a dark storm cloud.

Had Forrest opened her locket?

The thought was so horrible, so abominable, that for a moment, Francie pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. If he had opened it, and seen it, he would know. He'd know her secret and she'd be cast out again. Maybe the Bondurants would also try to kill her? The thought was simultaneously ridiculous and horrifying to her. On some level, she felt the Bondurants were far above racial prejudice. However, she was simply terrified; she didn't know who she could trust, if she could trust anyone. Though the photograph could have been anyone, to a stranger's eye, the resemblance that Francie bore to her mother was truly unmistakable. Forrest was not a stupid man – in fact, he was exactly the opposite. He was intelligent and clever, silently observant and he seemed to miss nothing at all. If he had opened her locket, and seen this picture, then he knew. He knew all about her.

_But would he have done it?_ Francie wondered frantically. Would Forrest have opened her locket to look at the picture inside? He didn't seem to be the nosy type, but then again – a locket was a piece of jewelry that begged a person to open it up to see who the wearer kept close to their heart.

_No one must ever know, Francesca. _Her father's voice resonated in her mind. _No one can know, for no one will understand or accept you. No one would love you as I love you. You would never be accepted anywhere._

"Francesca…Francie?"

His voice startled her and she jumped slightly, whirling to face him, still clutching her necklace in both hands. Forrest stood in her doorway, filling it with his large build and his imposing presence. He dropped his eyes to the floor when she looked into his face.

"Yes, Forrest?" she asked, feeling shy and ashamed of her tacky appearance. Between the heat and sweat of the afternoon and her impromptu waterworks, she could only imagine how awful she looked.

"Umm…I just wanted to ask what time you think supper will be ready. I need to go follow up with Howard. He's been gone a little too long." His gaze move toward her hands.

"It should be ready within the hour," she replied softly. She took a hesitant step toward him, holding out the locket. "I noticed that this was on my vanity. The clasp was fixed." She took another step toward him, watching as he shifted his weight as though he were a little uncomfortable. "Did – did you fix this for me, Forrest?"

He cleared his throat. "You dropped it on your way out with Jack this morning," he said gruffly. "I noticed the clasp was loose. You gon' keep droppin' that damned thing if someone didn't fix it."

Francie bit back a smile; he was obviously grumpy at having been caught doing something thoughtful. "Yes, I know I needed to have it fixed. I could have lost it forever. It means a great deal to me." She hesitated, wondering if she should ask if he had looked inside. She locked gazes with him, and his pewter eyes bored into her steadily as though he could tell what was on her mind and he was silently waiting for her to go ahead and ask. Her courage failed her and she said nothing.

He cleared his throat again, glancing away. "Umm…you need some help puttin' that back on?" The offer took her completely by surprise; she blinked at him, then nodded slowly and held it out. As they did at breakfast, their fingers brushed together slightly and Francie's eyes went sharply to his. He didn't look at her; he only stared at their hands.

"Turn around," he commanded in his quiet, rich voice. Francie turned around and Forrest slipped the necklace over her head. She swept her dark curls over her shoulder, baring the nape of her neck. As he drew the two ends of the silver chain together at the back of her neck, Francie became aware that she could feel his warm breath on her skin. When his fingertips grazed her flesh, lightning bolts of sensation lanced through her and it felt familiar – and recent. She tried, but she couldn't suppress a tiny shiver at the very light sensation of his fingers on her skin, and she heard him pull in a sharp breath and hold it. He finished attaching the ends of the clasp together; his fingers rested lightly on her shoulders for just a moment before he dropped his hands and stepped away. Francie stood still for a moment, then slowly turned to face him, intending to thank him. Surprise filled her when she saw his retreating back heading for the stairs.

"Back soon," he said over his shoulder, and descended the stairs quickly, leaving Francie staring after him, her neck tingling.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Hi guys. Just wanted to say hi and stuff. Hope your weeks are going smashingly and um...hi. Please read and review. Ok? Ok. Bye.**

**Chapter 13**

As Francie stacked dishes in the sink that evening after supper, she looked out the window. It was darker than it should have been at this hour, and in the distance a clap of thunder met her ears. The storm that she knew was coming was upon them, and she couldn't wait. She had always loved thunderstorms as a girl, the thunder sending her screaming under the bed or into her father's arms, and as she grew older they didn't frighten her as much as they excited her.

Dinner had been a success. Forrest had managed to bring Howard back just in time, and she could see that the eldest Bondurant was three sheets to the wind. He had passed out in the stills, Forrest had told them, shaking his head. Regardless, Howard's table manners seemed to become even more polished and sharp and his appetite was undeterred by his imbibing. The three brothers seemed to thoroughly enjoy the dishes she set before them. She had purposely made them as spicy as she had been raised to do, and had taken secret pleasure in the coughs and watery eyes she saw around the table. The pie had gone over well, with each brother declaring in his own way that it was the finest he'd ever tasted. Jack was openly straightforward, Howard made flowery, slightly sarcastic words of praise, and Forrest had just nodded quietly when she'd asked if he'd liked it.

"Very much," he said in his deep, low voice, and that was all that needed to be said.

After the meal, Howard had gone off to join up with some friends for more drinking. He said that the spicy food he'd eaten had dulled his inebriation and he needed to rejuvenate it. Jack had put on his hat, saying he was going to go for a drive. Everyone knew very well that meant that he was going to meet up with Bertha Minnix and sneak off into the woods to neck until nightfall. Francie had watched him go with a smile.

_To be young again_, she thought.

Now, she began to rinse off the dishes, wishing the patio door was open a little to let in some of the crisp breeze carrying the promise of rain. Footsteps sounded on the wooden floors behind her, stopping until they were just a few feet away.

"What're you doin' there?" Forrest asked. "Don't you bother with those. They'll keep 'til mornin'."

"You've got customers in the morning," Francie reminded him, glancing over at him. "You wouldn't want them coming in to a sink full of dirty dishes."

"Nah," Forrest replied. "I'll get Jack to wake up early and do 'em. Come on, now. You did all the cookin'. Rest your feet."

With that, he turned and headed for the door. Francie remained by the sink, wondering where he was off to, and felt a sudden rush of surprise when he paused by the door after opening it. He kept it open with one foot.

"Thought I'd go sit on the porch for a spell," he said quietly to the doorway. "Always liked the on-comin' of a storm."

It was an unequivocal invite to join him. Francie hastily wiped her hands on her apron and untied it from her waist, setting it down on the counter as she moved toward the door. He stood back to give her room to pass.

"Thank you," she said a little breathlessly. He took a seat in the rocking chair and she sat a few feet in front of him, on the top step of the porch. She stretched her legs, pointing her toes, and realized how nice it felt to be off her feet and relaxing. She idly brushed back a curl that the wind tossed into her face.

"Sure you want to sit there?" he asked. "You can have this rockin' chair if you want."

"No," Francie said, glancing over her shoulder at him. "Thank you. I'm very happy where I'm at." She turned her face just a cool gust of wind blew toward them. It blew at the curls around her neck again, tickling her skin, and it made her smile.

"Seems you like a good storm, too," Forrest commented.

"I do," Francie said. "Ever since I was a child. I used to be scared of them, but I grew out of that early on. I used to make my father so angry because I would sneak outside at night during a storm and dance in the rain. Then I would sneak back in and track water and mud everywhere, and he'd be furious with me." She smiled a little at the memory. "He would scold me and tell me I mustn't do it again, and I would say 'yes, Father' until the next storm. Then I'd be right back outside. And sometimes that would be the very next night."

"Dancin' in the rain," Forrest repeated quietly.

"I loved the feeling of my skin after being in the rain. It's so…cleansing. Purifying. I felt like –" _Like I was washing away the façade I'd been born into._ "I felt like I could be myself. I felt the rain washed the rest of the world away, and all that mattered was me and my dancing." She cleared her throat. "It was a habit I never grew out of. When I got older, I wouldn't dance anymore. But I would sit."

"Sit in the rain?" Forrest asked.

"Yes. Just sit there, on the roof or maybe someplace nearby. I would sit there for as long as I could, just letting the rain wash over me."

"Hmm," Forrest said, the noise resonating deep in his throat. "I reckon I can identify with your reasoning." He was quiet for a while. "Who was that man in your room last night?"

For a moment, Francie was confused. _You,_ she wanted to say, until she realized he meant at the boarding house. "Someone – someone – from New Orleans," she said thickly, knowing her answer was weak.

Forrest grunted in something that could have been wry amusement as he fished around in his pocket for a stogie, his tongue slipping out to moisten the paper before he popped it between his lips. "Figured that much," he said around the cigar.

"You said you wouldn't ask me," Francie murmured to the breeze, folding her arms over her chest at the slight chill she felt. She felt a tiny, feather-light plop of rain land on her cheek then; it had started to sprinkle. In the distance, she could see the storm sweeping closer, the rain falling from the clouds looking like sun rays breaking through.

"I did say that," Forrest said. "You're right about that." He struck a match and brought it to the end of his cigar, puffing away. Soon, a rich, smoky scent of vanilla and cinnamon filled her nose and she wondered where he got cigars like that; they smelled good enough to eat. They sat there on the porch in silence for an extended time, Forrest puffing away on his cigar and Francie enjoying the scent of it, staring off into the distance. The air grew colder and humid with the onset of the storm; the scent of rain was sharp in the air.

When the first clap of thunder broke, close enough to rattle the ground and Francie's bones, she turned to Forrest. "I did something, back there in New Orleans," she said softly.

Forrest grunted. "What's that, now?"

Francie clenched her jaw and cursed him silently; Forrest had the ears of a lynx. He'd heard her, she knew. "Back in New Orleans," she said more loudly as a bolt of lightning arced through the sky. "I did something. I did something bad." Forrest merely glanced at her, a cloud of smoke slipping between his lips and out his nostrils as he listened. Francie wasn't quite ready to tell him the entire story, but she felt she could give him a general idea. "I broke a law. A couple of laws. And that man, he was a private detective, hired by – some people I knew. Hired to bring me back to New Orleans." She glanced up at him. "You saved me from him, but I'm afraid he'll be back."

"'Course he will," Forrest replied mildly.

Francie waited, but Forrest said nothing else. She tapped her fingers on her arm impatiently. "Aren't you curious about what I did that would have a private investigator on my trail?"

Forrest's pewter eyes met hers calmly. "I have already pried enough for one day," he replied. "As I told you before, I ain't askin' you nothin'. You can tell me whatever you like."

Francie felt a little annoyed at his remark, though she couldn't imagine why. It was to her benefit that this man wasn't hounding her about her misdeeds. The fewer people that knew of what she'd done, the better. She wasn't at all sure what she thought of Forrest agreeing that the detective would likely return. Did that mean Forrest would try and protect her again, if he did show up? Or had he decided that she was more trouble than she was worth and planned to hand her off?

The sprinkling rain suddenly became a heavy deluge with little warning, the winds blowing heavily. Francie wished she could stay outside, but Forrest put out the rest of his cigar on the bottom of his boot and rose from the chair.

"Best get inside," he said. "Get some rest. Been a heavy couple days."

He turned and headed for the door, pushing it open and pausing on the porch, looking off into the distance as he waited for her to join him. Reluctantly, she walked through the door into the warm station. She turned and watched as he tugged the door shut behind him against the gusting wind.

"Good night, Forrest," she said quietly. "I'll see you in the morning."

He glanced over at her. "Good night," he replied gruffly. He cleared his throat. "Umm. Thank you for cookin' tonight. It was – it was mighty good."

His compliment surprised and pleased her. She smiled a little. "You're most welcome," she returned. He glanced at her again and nodded, then gestured vaguely toward the stairs. "G'on now. " He moved toward his little office. Francie hesitated.

"Aren't you also going to bed?" she asked, hoping the question wasn't as forward to him as it felt to her.

"Not just now," he answered quietly. "Got some figures to go over in my books. I'll be up soon."

Francie nodded, then cast one more look out the window at the downpour before she ascended the stairs.

:O:O:O:

In the darkness of his room later that night, Forrest tiredly shut his door and shuffled toward his bed. The storm outside was still raging, thunder rolling every few minutes and lightning brightening the sky every so often. He watched the way the winds blew violently at the trees as he shucked his shirt and pants, tugging off his undershirt, before he climbed into his bed and laid down, his body aching appreciatively at the instant comfort. Strangely, the noise of a storm never served to disturb his rest; in fact, he found that he slept better during storms than under calmer conditions.

He drifted off, but some time later he was instantly alert, sitting straight up in bed. He wasn't sure what he'd heard that had woken him, but he was up now, wide awake. He was a light sleeper, he always had been. He got out of bed and stood by the door, listening intently. Vaguely he heard the front door to the station open and close. He wondered if it was Howard or Jack returning from their night of respective frolicking. He figured that the station might have been closer to wherever they had gone than the farm, but he heard no clumsy thumping of Jack's boots, nor did he hear the drunken racket that Howard always made when he came home late.

He moved to the window when he realized that the noise he heard had likely been someone leaving the station instead of entering it. The thought made him nervous, fearing that someone had broken in while he slept, but he knew that couldn't be right, either. He would have heard the commotion that an actual break-in would have caused. He peered outside, searching for any sign of a vehicle or evidence that someone was there. He needed to be extra-cautious, now that Francie had confirmed that someone was indeed after her. That detective could be back, perhaps, unlikely though that was.

He saw a pale flash through the downpour, illuminated by the glow of the moon that somehow managed to peek out from the clouds, and felt his eyes go wide.

She was dressed in the same nightie she'd been in the night before, and she was outside in the rain. She twirled a circle then stopped, her head tilting back into the rain sluicing over her. Her arms lifted over her head, stretching, and then she was moving again, walking aimlessly across the yard.

"Crazy woman," Forrest mumbled to himself. What in the hell was she thinking? Then he recalled the story she'd told him, about sneaking outside when she was a young girl to dance in the rain. That the rain had been cleansing, purifying to her.

For a long moment, he watched her as she moved in the rain. She would walk a few steps and then twirl a circle, her arms held out gracefully at her sides before repeating the movement again across the yard. It seemed as though she didn't have a care in the world in that moment, or that she was concerned with anyone seeing her. Her curls were soaked, hanging in long black ropes down her back. The rain made it hard for him to see anything about her beyond her general shape, but he knew that her nightie had to be clinging to her body like a second skin.

The thought made him stiffen inside his boxer shorts. He turned away from the window, putting his hands on his hips as he tried to calm himself down. He wondered how long she planned to stay outside; part of him wanted to go out there and tell her to come in, that she was being foolish, but a different part knew that on some level, she needed to be out there in the rain right now.

After a moment, he pulled on his pants and went out into the upstairs hallway. He removed a freshly laundered towel from the bathroom and took it downstairs. He set it down on the sideboard near the door. He lit a spare lamp and placed it next to the towel, then returned to his room. He intended to stay awake to make sure that she made it back into the station safely, but he realized he'd been dozing again when he suddenly jerked fully awake sometime later. He heard the front door to the station shutting quietly. After a moment, he heard feet, bare feet, lightly making their way up the stairs. The floorboards creaked a little; otherwise, they were silent. Forrest looked through the crack in his door, watching as the glow from the lamp he'd left for Francie began to slowly illuminate the upstairs area. A moment later, her shadow stretched along the wall, heralding her arrival. When she stepped into view, he froze, unable to look away. In the darkness of his own room, he knew that she couldn't see him, but the lamp she held allowed him to see all of her. The towel trailed in her hand, dragging along the floor as she paused in the hall. She held the lamp in her other hand and she turned to look toward his bedroom over her shoulder. He sucked in his breath as the lamp moved with her turn, and illuminated her from the front. He could make out her silhouette shining through her sodden nightie, petite but curvy and luscious where it mattered most. The thin strap of her garment slipped down her arm, bringing the top of the bodice with it, and his sharp vision could see the top of one of her taut, pert nipples standing out, just slightly, teasing him. He held as still as he could manage though his loins had started to stir again in a most frustrating way. Suddenly, she spoke, her whisper cutting through the silence and startling him.

"Thank you, Forrest."

He stayed silent, watching her. Her eyes scanned over his dark room, as though she were waiting for a reply. After a moment, Francie turned away and moved into her own bedroom, slowly shutting the door, the light from the lamp going out a moment later.

:O:O:O:

Early the next morning, Forrest glanced up from the table he was sitting at, his ledger open in front of him, when he heard the sound of heels clattering down the wooden stairs. He frowned, wondering why on earth Francie would be up this early. The station wasn't open yet, and Jack hadn't yet arrived from the farm to begin on the dishes.

Francie entered the dining room area, a slight smile on her face. She wore a skirt and a sweater, and appeared to be ready to go somewhere.

"Good morning," she said.

"What are you up so early for?" he replied. Her brow furrowed slightly in confusion.

"I have a job," she said patiently. "It's almost time for me to report for work."

"You're still plannin' to work in town?" Forrest asked incredulously. "After everything that's happened?"

Francie tilted her head. "Of course I am," she said slowly. "Mrs. Everett is counting on me. I have responsibilities. Why would I not return to work?"

"Seems to me like you ought to lay low," Forrest said gruffly. "After you got attacked by them two drunks and that detective paid you a visit, I figured you'd want to drop out of sight."

Francie lifted her chin. "I may have run from my past in Louisiana," she said. "But I won't run now. I think you effectively encouraged the two drunkards from Miz Judy's to move on from Franklin. As for the detective, I have no way of knowing where he went or if he'll come back, but I've decided that I shall accept my fate, whatever it may be." She set her jaw. "I've done some thinking, and I realize I cannot change anything that happened, nor can I escape it. I will either be granted an opportunity to live my life in peace – or I won't."

Forrest nodded slowly, getting to his feet and closing his ledger. "That what you were thinkin' about when you were outside last night?"

Francie looked at him levelly. "That, and other things."

Forrest nodded again. He needed to follow up on some business in town anyway. While he didn't anticipate spending the whole day there, he would be close by enough to keep an eye on things. That detective would have to be plumb stupid to return in the broad light of day, but then again, he didn't strike Forrest as a man who was heavy on the brains, anyway.

He led the way outside to the truck just as Jack was pulling up. Even through the window of the car Forrest could see how bleary-eyed Jack looked; he wondered just how long he'd been out with Miss Minnix.

"Clean up those dishes in the sink, Jack," he instructed. "Then mind the station. Howard should be around at his usual time. You know what to do if a customer wants some product."

"You plannin' to be away all day, Forrest?" Jack asked, rubbing the heel of his palm into his eye.

"Back and forth some," Forrest replied. "I'll be here for the evenin' hours, of course." He glanced slightly over his shoulder. "I need to take Miss Francesca here to the shop."

"Good mornin', Miss Francie," Jack said with a sleepy smile. "Boy, that was some meal that you cooked last night. I think my mouth is still on fire."

Francie couldn't help a teasing smile. "I'm sure that has less to do with my cooking and more to do with your interlude with Miss Minnix, but I thank you, Jack, nonetheless." She gave the boy a moment to stutter and blush. "And there is some étouffée left in the icebox for you. Be sure to save some for your brothers."

"Is it good for breakfast, Miss Francie?" Jack called over his shoulder, already bounding up the porch.

"It's good anytime," Francie replied with a laugh.

"Clean them dishes 'fore you stuff your face, boy," Forrest added.

"Yeah, yeah, Forrest. I got you, I got you."

Forrest shook his head and opened the passenger door for Francie, glancing off into the distance as he always did as she climbed into the cab. He shut the door after her and walked around the front to get into his own side. He cranked the engine and pulled away from the station. Their drive into town was quiet as their drives usually were at first. After a few moments, Francie glanced at him.

"Were you watching me last night?" she asked quietly. "Outside, I mean."

Forrest cleared his throat. "Umm. I heard a noise, wasn't sure what it was. Checked out the window and seen you out there."

Francie nodded and glanced away. "I suppose telling you about my childhood activities made me miss being out there. I forgot how well I can think in the rain."

"In all that downpour and thunder?" Forrest said. "Huh. Most women go runnin' at the first clap of thunder, not go chargin' out into it."

Francie shrugged a little. "I suppose I am not like most women."

Forrest couldn't agree more. She certainly didn't look like most of the women he knew. The sun yesterday afternoon had darkened her normally pale, creamy skin into a golden bronze hue. Since he knew what her mother looked like, it wasn't hard to imagine the pigment in her skin darkening with a few hours spent in the sun. In fact, it had probably been far more work to try to keep it as pale as it had been until yesterday. He noticed this morning as well a light sprinkle of freckles across her cheeks, under her eyes. They were just a shade darker than her skin, but he noticed them. He liked them.

"I, ah," Francie said, fidgeting with her pocketbook in her lap. "I appreciate you leaving me the towel and the lamp. I thanked you last night but I'm afraid you were already asleep, and did not hear me."

Forrest thought back to the sight of her nude body shining softly through that goddamn nightie, glowing in the light of the lamp, and about just how long he'd personally stayed up after she'd gone to bed, continuing to think of it.

"Umm," he said, feeling himself stir below the waist. "No trouble."

They reached town and he pulled in front of Mrs. Everett's shop. Automatically he scanned the town; he wasn't taking any chances, not even on a Monday morning. As he knew all too well, the scar at his throat beginning to itch unconsciously, sometimes the best place to hide when a person was trying to catch someone unawares was right out in public.

As Francie was opening the door to hop out of his truck, he leaned over and grabbed her arm, ignoring the way his body responded even more to the feeling of that soft skin under his rough hand, stirring up more memories.

"You be careful," he warned. "Try not to wander off at all. I'll be around today. I've got some business I need to attend to."

"I'll be as careful as I can," Francie said, "but I will more than likely need to stop somewhere for lunch."

"I'll bring you something at your lunch hour, and you can stay right here and eat it," Forrest said firmly.

Francie studied his face with her crystal blue eyes. He couldn't quite meet her gaze head on, so he dropped it to the locket around her neck. He quickly glanced back at her in surprise when her hand patted his, still around her arm, gently.

"Thank you, Forrest," she said softly. "You're a good man."

He cleared his throat and glanced away, removing his hand from her arm. "Umm. I'll see you in a few hours."

"Yes," she replied, sliding out of the truck. "Have a nice morning."

He merely grunted and tugged the brim of his hat. She shut the door and he pulled off. He couldn't help peeking into the rearview mirror, seeing her pause outside the shop for a moment, looking after him, before she went inside. He told himself the queer little pull he felt in his belly was just morning hunger.

_Nothin' else_, he told himself sternly.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Hey y'all - Long time, no update! Hopefully you are all still with me. Well, this one is gonna be full of typos. I'm going to clean it up for you later, but I just had to get it out and AS USUAL - I'm in a hurry. Forgive me! And please enjoy and leave me some reviews because they make me happy. **

**Chapter 14**

Francie hurried into the shop after lingering to watch Forrest drive off. She felt uneasy at the effect the man was having on her; she still didn't understand his actions toward her. They went above and beyond someone who was merely looking out for their financial investment. It was almost as if – as if he cared for her.

_That is not the situation,_ she told herself firmly. Especially if Forrest had looked inside her locket and discovered her secret. She was almost positive that he had; the only thing that made doubt linger in her mind was the fact that he hadn't kicked her out of his station yet. But he had to have noticed the physical changes in her that revealed that she was something other than the average white woman.

"Mrs. Everett?" she called out tentatively.

"Back here, dear," the seamstress called. "I've got a rather full day for you."

Francie obediently moved toward the back of the shop into the sewing room. As usual, the shop owner's appearance was askew – ribbons tossed around her neck, pins sticking out from between her lips, and locks of hair falling from the knot at her neck. She glanced up at Francie and then did a double-take. Francie realized she had not only forgotten that her face showed evidence of the violence she'd suffered over the weekend, she had also forgotten to powder her face although she knew that based on the hue of the rest of her skin, it wouldn't have helped. She shifted uncomfortably as Mrs. Everett slowly rose to her feet.

"What in the name of the Lord," the woman murmured, stepping closer to Francie. "My dear – what on God's green earth happened to you? Who did that?"

Francie touched her cheek self-consciously. "Please don't worry yourself, Mrs. Everett. This is nothing. I was accosted by a couple of drunks late Saturday night and they did not take kindly to my refusal of their invitation to imbibe with them."

"Did they try to rape you?" Mrs. Everett asked bluntly, placing her hands on her hips. "I try not to pass judgment on folks, but men in their cups are worrisome in this town."

Francie's cheeks flamed. "Ah, no, ma'am. They did not rape me. Forrest –" She blushed again. "Mr. Bondurant intervened, actually."

"Is that right?" Mrs. Everett asked with new interest. "Well, I'd say that makes you a very fortunate young woman." Her eyes raked sharply over Francie's face again. "There's something a little different about you, dear. Aside from the marks you've regrettably endured. Have you – have you been in the sun?"

"I was a little while yesterday, yes," Francie replied. "Does this dress need to be taken in?" She turned away quickly to reach for a pale blue cotton dress hanging on a dress mannequin.

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Everett replied, distracted anew with the tasks before them. "Yes, if you would begin on that dress, please. The measurements are written down in that book there beside you. Yes, that's the one."

With Mrs. Everett sufficiently distracted from the odd change in Francie's appearance, they worked side by side all day. They worked so hard, in fact, that Francie barely noticed when the hour for lunch arrived; had Forrest not arrived when he did, Francie was sure she would have barreled through the day without taking a meal. But when Mrs. Everett returned from her own lunch, she poked her head into the sewing room where Francie was hard at work on a hemline.

"There's a handsome fellow out here asking for you, dear," the seamstress teased. "I asked him if he was sure he wasn't here to see an old bag like me. He insisted he wasn't." She sighed dramatically. "I can only assume you're acquainted."

With Mrs. Everett lurking and undoubtedly trying to eavesdrop, Francie accepted the brown bag from Forrest with a shy nod. He cleared his throat.

"I'll – I'll see you in a few hours," he said gruffly. He glanced up, and Francie followed his gaze, seeing Mrs. Everett peeking around from the back. He tugged the brim of his hat. "Ma'am."

"Forrest," Mrs. Everett said in a fluttery voice that made Francie glance at her curiously. She bade Forrest goodbye and took the bag with her into the back room with Mrs. Everett. She peeked into the sack and saw a chicken salad sandwich wrapped in paper and an apple.

"Never seen a man bring a lady a meal before," Mrs. Everett said pointedly as Francie reached into the bag to remove her sandwich. "'Specially not a man like Forrest Bondurant. He must think an awful lot of you."

"He's just being careful, in light of my attack," Francie replied carefully, not wanting to discuss the detective at all. "He would prefer that I not leave and go anywhere by myself just now."

"What about when you go home in the evenings?" Mrs. Everett replied.

"I – I no longer live at the boarding house," Francie admitted, focusing on her sandwich.

"Where do you mean that you're staying now?" Mrs. Everett asked, leaning forward. Her mouth twitched like she was trying to fight a smile.

"The Bondurants were kind enough to give me lodging at their station," Francie mumbled, taking an enormous bite of her sandwich, mostly to stall.

"Is that so?" Mrs. Everett exclaimed. "My, my. That _was_ kind of them." She carefully threaded a needle. "Although to my knowledge, I believe Jackie and Howard live off on their parents' old farm, leaving Forrest the only one to live at that station." She peered over the rim of her eyeglasses at Francie, who was studiously examining a piece of chicken in her sandwich. "Am I correct?"

Francie flushed and cleared her throat. "Um. Yes, ma'am. That's correct."

"So you are living at the station. Alone. With Forrest Bondurant." This time, a smile tugged at the corners of the seamstress's mouth. She noted Francie's obvious discomfort. "My dear, I'd say you are one of the luckiest broads in this town." She gave Francie a pointed stare just as the bell tinkled above the door at the front of the shop.

"It's not quite the manner in which you think it is," Francie said desperately as the seamstress rose from her stool. "I – I wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea, Mrs. Everett."

"Mrs. Everett?" a woman called faintly from the front.

"Coming!" the seamstress called. She turned to Francie and put her hands on her hips. "I'm not sure what idea I have that is wrong. You're a lovely young lady. Forrest is –" She sighed dreamily. "Forrest is a strapping young man, though his profession might be rather questionable. I'm not blind or ignorant, child. I have eyes. Though you exchanged only a handful of words I can smell the attraction between you two." She moved toward the doorway. "There's naught about that to allow me to get a wrong idea, as you say. I told you before about our Virginia stock of fine bucks, Francesca. Perhaps you ought to take yourself a little ride."

Francie's mouth fell open in shock, completely forgetting her manners and that a half-chewed bite of sandwich was still between her jaws, and Mrs. Everett smiled widely as Francie hastened to clamp a napkin to her lips. The older woman gracefully swept out of the room to tend to the customer, and Francie was left to consider her words, her cheeks burning. The more she thought of it, the more she realized that she wasn't embarrassed out of modesty; she was embarrassed because her employer had essentially verbalized things that Francie thought of and felt herself. Namely, the previous night when she'd paused outside Forrest's door. She had found it interesting that he'd left his door slightly ajar although she couldn't see anything inside. However, having seen the room in the light of day, she knew where the placement of his bed was, and if he'd been in it then…he'd gotten an eyeful of her in her soaked nightie. She'd felt exhilarated from her bath in the rain; she felt like she'd been cleansed, purified, rinsed away of all her pain and sins – at least for that moment – and as she had paused in that upstairs hallway, she'd felt a strange feeling, deep inside her, almost like a hunger; but it wasn't for food. She had felt almost primal in that moment – just an animal operating off of basic need and instinct, and in that moment, in that one precise moment as she had stared into his dark bedroom, her need was for his flesh.

When that thought had consciously settled in her brain, and she felt slickness between her thighs from more than just the wild thunderstorm she'd placed herself in, she had realized it was time to go to bed. She had felt like she was being watched; she knew he could see her, so she'd thanked him softly and shut herself inside the room. Her cheeks flamed when she thought of what happened next; she'd felt so desirous, so filled with lust for the man across the hall she could _still_ smell, that she had touched herself, stroking herself with her delicate fingertips quickly until she climaxed, turning her face into the pillow to muffle her soft moans because she couldn't stay quiet. And when she was done, she had been surprised to discover she felt absolutely no shame or guilt in what she had done – moaning like a wanton whore in a man's guest bedroom – she had felt only remorse that that man had not been the one between her thighs, bringing her pleasure.

_That_ thought did bring her a little embarrassment; it was so unlike her. Then again, she'd almost murdered a man, she'd stolen money and valuable jewels and run away – those things were also unlike her. Then she realized she wasn't sure _who_ she was anymore, given all of those things, and perhaps she really _was _some wanton whore who wanted a man – no, not just any man; Forrest Bondurant – to pound away between her legs until she gasped and shook.

The thought was meant to be self-mocking, one to bring shame and cause her to seek repentance for her sinful thoughts, but unfortunately all it did was make her warm the rest of the day; she could think of nothing else except recalling what Forrest's calloused hands had felt like on her body that first night when he thought she'd been sleeping, and imagining what they would have felt like on more sensitive parts of her body. She kept telling herself he didn't want her like that and she was only hurting herself with such thoughts, because she would likely never have him that way, but she couldn't stop herself. As a result, she had had to redo several hems, because they came out crooked, and she had pricked herself with her needle at least half a dozen times.

Blessedly, quitting time came upon them just when Francie thought that Mrs. Everett was considering throttling her with some velvet ribbon. The older woman all but shooed Francie out of the shop, and parked patiently out front was Forrest. Francie shyly descended the steps and went toward the truck where he was leaned against the hood, chewing a toothpick, his eyes following her sharply.

"Good evening," she greeted him quietly. He nodded his head at her and automatically opened her door for her. Francie tried to discreetly hike up her skirt a little to help her with her ascension into the truck. Suddenly she found herself being lifted into the air when Forrest gripped her upper ribs and handed her up into the cab. She looked at him in surprise, laughing a little breathlessly. For a brief moment he met her gaze, his pewter eyes twinkling just a little at her, before shutting her door and going around to the other side.

As they drove toward the station, Francie glanced over at him. He was still chewing away at the little wooden stick between his lips, leaning an elbow against the window frame.

"How was your day, Forrest?" she asked.

He glanced at her, something like mild surprise on his face. "Umm. Fine, I reckon." He cleared his throat. "How – umm. How was yours?"

Francie hid a smile at his attempt at civility. "I found myself rather distracted today, but I suppose it went just fine."

"Distracted?" Forrest repeated.

_Because of you_. "I just – have some things on my mind," she replied lightly. "Kept bothering me today for some reason." The flesh between her thighs crawled as recalled her sinful thoughts from earlier and she looked away, out the opposite window. Her eyes lit on a huge, heavy dark cloud in the distance. It appeared that it was making its way toward them. Forrest caught her looking at it.

"Looks like we're in for another storm tonight," he said. "Wouldn't be surprised if it kept up for another week or so. We need it, though."

Francie hoped it would rain; she wanted to be out in it again, to feel the thunder rumbling around her, feel the moisture on her skin. Feel herself come alive with an almost animal-like sense of alertness, her most basic needs and desires taking over as all the complexities of real life washed away from her. Her hand unconsciously tightened in her lap as she drew in a deep breath through her nose, and his smell filled her senses. She only hoped that this time, she would better control those needs and desires.

:O:O:O:

"But, Forrest, I was supposed to go meet Bertha tonight," Jack was saying later that evening when Francie came down for supper. She had set some stew to cook on the stove while she went to freshen herself and came upon Forrest and Jack in a bit of an argument. Well, Jack was arguing, Francie corrected herself. Forrest was merely looking at him.

"Jack, don't get me wrong, that's a nice girl and everything, but frankly I'm less inclined to give two shits of one fuck about your plans," Forrest drawled. "This is business."

"You got Howard here," Jack exclaimed.

"Howard is helpin' me with the business part," Forrest said, his words beginning to sound slightly clipped, indicating his growing irritation. "Who the hell is gonna mind the customers?"

"So that's what you need me for?" Jack replied angrily. "Just to be a fuckin' barkeep? How many times I got to prove to you I can handle more? You wouldn't _have_ a standing agreement with Floyd Banner if I didn't –"

"Your date with your girlfriend is gonna have to wait," Forrest interrupted, his voice heavy with finality. "That's the end of it."

"I'll work the bar," Francie offered, causing both men to jump a little at the sound of her voice.

"Really?" Jack said eagerly.

"Hell, no," Forrest said at the same time.

"I don't mind," Francie insisted, walking further into the dining area. "It's the least I can do, since you're allowing me to stay here." She smiled at Jack. "Why don't you stay for supper, and then you can meet Bertha."

"You sure you don't mind, Miss Francie?" Jack asked.

"I don't mind at all," Francie repeated. "Come now, sit down. Forrest, can you please bring Howard in?"

Forrest shifted his gaze from his little brother to Francie, and she noticed that they held the same irritated expression as they had when he'd looked at Jack. Wordlessly he headed toward the back of the station to fetch his older brother.

The meal felt awkward to Francie, but Howard and Jack chattered on as usual, and Forrest remained quiet as usual. She felt he was annoyed with her, but she simply couldn't imagine why – she'd solved both Bondurants' troubles in one go. What could there possibly be to complain about?

The evening crowd began to trickle in, slowly but surely. It was a much less raucous crowd than the one that patronized Miz Judy's basement three nights out of the week, but these men were definitely rough around the edges. Men came up to the counters to buy directly from Forrest behind the bar, where he stayed for the better part of a half an hour. Francie stood at the sink, washing the dishes, watching as Forrest handled the customers at the bar quietly. He'd asked her to make extra food earlier when she'd begun her cooking and for the men that wanted a meal, they had her stew. Most of them, she noticed, just wanted the liquor.

When the crowd at the bar thinned out a little, she moved to Forrest's side. "I can take care of this," she said quietly. "You said you had other business to conduct."

"They ain't here yet," Forrest replied, fixing her with a hard stare. "And I'd rather you go on upstairs."

"Why?" Francie asked in surprise. "You needed Jack because you and Howard were going to be handling some business. I clearly have experience serving liquor. I know what you charge for the jars now, having listened to you for a while. I can take care of this."

"This ain't no place for you," Forrest said evenly. "I didn't bring you out here to be my employee."

"I'm aware of that," Francie shot back irritably, noticing that several of the customers were looking curiously in their direction. "I'm offering you my help as it is the least I can do."

"Dammit, Francie –" Forrest growled back, but at that moment the door opened and three men, dressed in nice suits, walked into the station. Forrest shot her an annoyed look and stepped out from behind the bar to greet them. One of the men stuck out his hand.

"Mr. Bondurant," he said. Forrest grasped his hand and merely nodded, not taking his eyes off the man. "Good to see you again. Will Howard and Jack be joining us?"

"Howard," Forrest called over his shoulder. A moment later, Howard appeared at his side. "Jack is indisposed this evenin'."

"Shame," the man replied. "Well, let's step into your office." Forrest led his brother and the man into his office. The two other men took seats at the bar.

"May I get you anything?" Francie asked politely, ignoring the way they raked her with their eyes. While she wasn't particularly fond of the undressing way that men sometimes looked at her, she didn't expect these two dandies to give her much trouble; they seemed to have enough manners to speak to her politely, even if their thoughts were probably less desirable.

"Let's have a taste of that lightning," one of the men said, licking his lips. "The famous Bondurant white lightning."

"One jar is three dollars," Francie replied. She reached under the counter and removed a jar of moonshine, holding onto it as she waited to be paid.

"Can't you give it to us for free, honey?" the other man asked. He jerked his head toward Forrest's office. "Ol' Willie in there, he's placin' a real big order from our boss. Forrest will be swimmin' in money."

"Be that as it may," Francie said lightly, "Mr. Bondurant said nothing of providing free jars to anyone, regardless of whether or not they placed an order. I'd prefer to err on the side of caution. So…three dollars, if you would be so kind."

She gasped a moment later when the jar she was holding was snatched out of her hand, the man who took it laughing softly at her. She gaped at him, astounded by his utter rudeness and feeling slightly intimidated.

He unscrewed the lid and took a long pull, his face screwing up from the sharp taste of the liquor. "Whew, that burns!" He shoved the jar across the bar's surface to his comrade. "Get you a little taste of that, Johnny." He grinned widely at Francie, then tilted his head. "You're an interesting looking gal, ain't ya?"

Francie averted her eyes. The man's friend, Johnny, smiled apologetically at her and slid three dollars over to her. She took the money and put it in Forrest's cash box. She intended to go back to the sink but the other man suddenly reached out and grabbed her wrist.

"James," Johnny said in surprise, but James ignored him and tugged Francie closer. She gritted her teeth when he leered into her face.

"I ain't ever seen no blue-eyed colored bitch before," he said softly. "You ain't got that much in ya, though, I can tell." He teethed his lower lip as his eyes slid over her face. "Never had me a colored bitch before. Bet you sweeter than the white ones." He waggled his tongue out at her in a disgustingly suggestive way that made her stomach turn.

Francie's hand shot out, her palm cracking against his face sharply like a pistol shot. He instantly let go of her wrist as his head snapped over. His cheek instantly reddened and he flexed his jaw. He turned glaring green eyes on her. She glowered right back at him.

"Mr. Bondurant doesn't take kindly to insults beneath his roof," she said softly. "You'd do well to keep your hands and comments to yourself."

"You outta your fuckin' mind?" Johnny asked James. "You know where you are right now?"

"Seems he plumb forgot, to me."

Their heads snapped up toward the sound of Forrest's voice. He stood with his hands in his pockets, Howard at his right, glaring furiously at the men. The man that had done business with them, Willie, looked positively aghast.

"James, what in the hell –" Willie looked frantically between his men and the Bondurants, then to Francie and back to Forrest. "Forrest, I deeply apologize. On behalf of myself and Mr. Banner –"

"Seems to me the lady handled it fair and square," Forrest interrupted quietly. "But you tell Floyd Banner that if I ever see _this _fuck –" he pointed at James, who was rapidly turning a shade of pale green – "on my property again, I will cut his balls off and make him feed them to the pigs. Get the hell out of here."

Willie, Johnny and James cleared out quickly, with Willie muttering curses at them darkly. Francie glared after them, rotating her wrist slightly as it ached a little. Howard sauntered up to the bar, grabbing the discarded jar of corn and swigging it back. He glanced at Francie.

"You all right there, honey?" he asked.

"I'm fine," Francie replied. "Thank you."

"I need to talk to you," Forrest said tightly. "In my office, if you don't mind."

Francie swallowed. He looked quite perturbed. As if on cue, a clap of thunder sounded outside, as though heralding the impending argument brewing between them. A moment later, the sound of heavy rain began to patter down on the roof. Howard glanced over at his younger brother, then chuckled and took another swallow of the moonshine. Francie stepped out from behind the bar and followed Forrest into the small office. He shut the door behind them once Francie was inside.

"That's exactly why the fuck I told you I didn't want you down here," he hissed angrily, and Francie was momentarily taken aback – not because of what he was saying or his use of profanity, but the fact that he was showing some real emotion with her beyond petty annoyance or frustration. He seemed to really be mad. "I deal with some of the most dangerous men out there who don't give a shit about anything but money and booze. You think that they give a rat's ass about harmin' a woman? Hell, no. I'm gettin' plumb sick of havin' to come to your rescue every other day because you don't _think!_"

Francie recoiled as if he'd slapped her. Instead of sensing her hurt and backing down, Forrest's brow lowered even more, as though he were further agitated that she would be hurt by what he believed to be a dose of common sense. He stepped toward her, and she took a coordinating step back, the back of her thighs colliding with the edge of his desk. She lost her balance and fell backward slightly, bracing her hands on the surface of the desk and leaning back away from him as he came to stand right in front of her, leaning toward her in his anger.

"I had to force you to stay in that goddamn hospital because you would have died from infection had you had your way and walked out of there," he began in a harsh undertone. "Then I _told you_ about workin' in a fuckin' _juke joint_ dressed the way you were and what happened? You got attacked by a couple of drunks. And who had to jump in? Me. Whatever it was you got yourself into back in New Orleans, I had to pull your ass out of that fire, too. Tonight I _told you_ I didn't want you down here, and look what happened? You're lucky I finished that order –"

"I'm _lucky?"_ Francie interrupted, unable to stand his tirade any longer. "Oh, please excuse me, Forrest. I'm sorry that I've become such a nuisance in your life! Perhaps you should have just left me beside the road to rot!"

"Knock that shit off," he said scornfully. "You ain't hearin' what I'm sayin' – _you _keep makin' bad decisions that put yourself in harms' way. Like insistin' you keep workin' in town at that goddamn shop – same town you were just attacked in, where people from your past _know_ you are. You _want _to get dragged back there? People know you know, Francie, they see you, they watch you, they look at you –"

_Never seen no blue-eyed colored bitch before._ The words James had whispered to her suddenly came to mind. That was all she would ever be. _No one must ever know, _her father's voice echoed. _No one would love you like I do. No one would understand. _She suddenly recognized the truth in his words and she shook, with fear and with rage. Those two strong emotions collided head on, shattering what remained of her nerves, making all sense, rationality and reason leave her in an instant, causing her to burst into sudden tears and rage like an insane person and pound her fists against him.

"It's because I'm colored," she sobbed. "You don't want anything to do with me now that people know I'm colored. Just admit it, you liar. You're ashamed to be seen with me, you're ashamed to know me. It's because I'm col –"

Forrest grabbed her wrists and yanked her to him. "Shut your mouth," he hissed furiously. "Shut your mouth with that bullshit."

Francie squeezed her eyes shut, hanging her head in helpless shame as tears coursed down her face. She had never felt more pathetic than she did right now, but she couldn't seem to stop herself. Emotions that she'd bottled up her entire life, feelings of utter inadequacy that she'd been bred into, and fear of rejection and hatred overwhelmed and consumed her and she wept.

"It's true," she cried. "I know it is. I know it is. I can see it."

She started, her eyes popping open in surprise when his warm hand fell over her mouth, hushing her. His pewter eyes flamed to a colorless, pale color and he glared at her.

"Shut your mouth," he repeated. "Yes, I know about you, Francesca. I saw the picture in your locket. Ask me if I give good goddamn what color you are." He paused, making a show of waiting for her question that both of them knew she wouldn't ask, and barreled on. "I don't give a fuck if you were purple with red polka dots; you'd still be the most beautiful woman on God's green earth, do you hear me?" He shook her, frustrated. "What I _do_ give a shit about is you knockin' off doin' shit that can get you killed. I know you lived a sheltered, pampered life and you don't know much about the world but let me tell you – it's brutal." He tilted his chin and yanked down the collar of his shirt, showing her the scar that ran across his throat. "You wanna end up like this?" His hand was still over her mouth, but her blue eyes were huge with fear. He shook her again. "Do you?" She shook her head rapidly. "Have to end up gettin' dragged to a hospital by a woman you thought loved you, only for her to turn around and leave –"

He realized he'd said far too much and snapped his mouth shut. The fear went out of Francie's eyes, a look of curious concern filling them now. Forrest's face was rigid with angry regret at his emotional slip and his hand dropped away from her face. He took a step back, glaring at the floor, his fists clenched at his side. His jaws flexed as he ground his teeth together.

Francie swallowed, afraid to move. "Forrest –"

Suddenly his arms were clenching around her upper arms, and he was dragging her off the desk. He whirled her around and pressed her against the door, breathing hard through his nose as he stared angrily into her face. She froze, feeling his fingers dig painfully into her tender flesh, her eyes wide but she refused to look away from his gaze. He seemed to be staring through her, as though she were someone else. She wondered in that moment if the ghost of the woman he had loved, the one who had left him, was in the room with them now.

He gripped her arms tightly again and pulled her away from the door slightly only to push her back into it again. The back of her head struck against the wood, hurting a little, and she grunted from the impact, but she only gripped his forearms and stared up at him.

"Forrest," she whispered.

His eyes glared into hers at the sound of his name. "It's me," she added inexplicably.

Gradually the angry look in his eyes receded slightly. His eyes stared desperately into hers and for the first time she was seeing some naked emotion other than anger in them. He was silently pleading for something, begging for it, but she didn't know what it was or how to give it to him. Her lips parted to speak, but no sound came out. Nonetheless, Forrest's eyes fell to her mouth, and he stared, and after a moment, a new emotion, something hungry, came into them and his breathing grew harsh again. His fingers squeezed impossibly tighter around her upper arms and he lowered his head slightly.

Francie's breath caught in her throat and she became aware that her mouth instantly grew moist, almost replicating the feeling she got between her legs. Forrest wanted her mouth, and she wanted to give it to him. She tilted her head involuntarily, her eyes only focused on his slightly opened mouth as it drew nearer. He was close enough that she could smell the smoke and cinnamon on his breath and she wanted to taste it in that moment more than anything. Her eyelids fell shut and she anticipated the feeling of his mouth on hers any second.

After a moment, she popped her eyes open. Forrest was still staring down at her, but his lips drew in a set line, his jaw muscles tensing. Francie was confused. Was he not going to kiss her? He'd been about to do it, she was certain – he'd wanted it, and he'd wanted it as badly as she had.

Suddenly he released her and took several steps back away from her. "Get – get out of here," he growled at her, then turned his back on her, his hands gripping his desk chair. The muscles in his back, plain through the cotton of his shirt, tensed.

Francie took a hesitant step forward. She was utterly lost. He couldn't really want her to go. "Forrest?" she said tentatively.

"I said, go."

The command, so quiet, but so powerful, so full of anger, was enough to stop her cold. She stared at his back, a moment longer, then turned and fled from the office, slamming the door behind her.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: 'Nother messy one for you. But I'm in a hurry and wanted to get this out to you all. Please R&R and enjoy!**

**Chapter 15**

The storm raged for the second night in a row, thunder shaking the station, lightning making it almost bright as day for an instant, and the torrential rain falling in sheets.

When she heard Forrest's bedroom slam shut, hours later, Francie slipped out of bed and opened her door a crack. It was unusual that Forrest slept with his door closed, but given the mood he was in – that she had put him in – that evening, she was not surprised he had chosen to close himself in. She paused outside his door, confusion and hurt blazing through her at his anger at her in his office – and the bizarre occurrence against the door. She couldn't understand what had made him initially move toward her as though to kiss her – and she was sure that had been what he meant to do – and then pull back at the last moment. And under the confusion and hurt she felt was something deeper – disappointment.

She turned and crept carefully down the wooden stairs, hearing them creak under her weight despite her caution. She paused halfway down, wondering if he had heard it over the din outside. His door remained closed, and after a moment, Francie turned and skipped down the last few steps to the door, unlocking it and rushing outside.

The first impact of the cold rain against her skin almost took her breath away. Her hair and slip immediately became drenched, and for a moment she almost felt like she was drowning. Then she tilted her head back to let the rain consume her even more, standing still in the red mud that had once been dirt on drier days.

When she felt calm she moved along toward the shed that held boxes and boxes of jars of moonshine. It was a rudimentary construction, crude, but it was warm and dry within and strong and unimpeachable without. She moved to the side where the large boulder was and stepped on it, hoisting herself up onto the roof of the shed. And there she sat, shivering, letting the rain cleanse her skin and her mind, allowing her to depart from herself and just think.

Now that she was separated from herself, she thought of Forrest's words to her in his office. He had been biting, and angry, and terrifying, and the sharpness of his words and tone had bit into her and they had hurt. But now, sitting in the middle of a thunderstorm, she reflected on his words calmly. He'd told her that she didn't think, implying that she was careless and reckless. He was tired of her making decisions that constantly put her in the line of danger and forcing him to constantly worry about her and come to her rescue. At first she dismissed the thought with a scoff. She certainly wasn't some damsel in distress, waiting on her white knight to come and save her at every turn. And if Forrest Bondurant felt that he was sick of making sure she was all right, well, he could certainly stop.

As water sluiced off her skin and the weight of her hair became heavier the more moisture it collected, Francie thought some more. She thought back to her attack on the side of the store, in her room at the boarding house, even tonight at the bar. She hadn't been doing anything wrong any of those times, she decided, but she wasn't being careful, either. She hadn't _needed _to go around the side of the store to meet Forrest. Furthermore, she hadn't _needed _to work at the juke at all. She hadn't _needed _to answer the door when the detective came knocking, though she was certain she would have met him again later on. She hadn't _needed _to volunteer to work the bar for Jack. She had simply wanted to be helpful, to repay the kindness she had been shown.

Despite her good, or not bad, intentions with each of those actions, she had managed to put herself in harm's way and Forrest had been forced to "pull her ass out of the fire," as he'd so eloquently stated. In her current mental state, her lips twisted into a wry smirk. The man had a way with words at times. She thought on, wondering why she behaved so recklessly when that was the furthest thing from her own intentions. As she mulled the thought over, thunder roared in the sky above her and lightning flashed brightly. She was momentarily blinded by the flash, shielding her eyes with her hand. And then, something dawned on her. Forrest had been correct when he'd pointed out she'd been raised in a sheltered, pampered environment all her life. She didn't know anything of the brutality of the world, of the evil that men did. Her experience with those things extended to attending afternoon teas with the other respectable women in town and hearing the latest gossip at these get-togethers, where the ladies would whisper behind their hands about some woman who'd been raped, or the bootleggers, or who'd been shot in the big cities. Francie hadn't been unaware of these things, but she had never imagined that any of them could happen to her. She needed to realize, she thought, that she was fair game in this vicious world she was now a part of. There was nothing special about her to make her any less a target. In fact, she knew with her odd looks, she drew more attention than she should.

That brought to mind another thought, one that she had dimly registered but now struck her full-force – Forrest knew her secret. He had seen the picture of her mother, he'd made the obvious connection, and he'd known. And he hadn't cared. He thought her beautiful, in fact, and he hadn't kicked her out of his station. That utterly confused her; Thomas had been ready and willing to end her life over her secret. But Forrest – Forrest didn't seem to care. He was furious with her for not taking better care of herself – he wasn't furious with her because she wasn't white.

She thought of Floyd Banner's man, James, who had easily picked up on her appearance at the bar. He'd called her colored. If he knew, who else knew? How long would it take for word to travel that the Bondurants were "keeping" a "colored woman" at their station? They were infamous in town; people were intrigued by them. A sudden horrible thought struck her – what if people thought she was being kept there – for additional business purposes?

She recalled her time in New Orleans, passing by a notorious brothel called the Big Easy Magnolia Blossom and seeing some of the "ladies" of the house outside of it, calling to men on the street. She recalled seeing a number of white prostitutes – and a great deal of mulatto prostitutes as well. Perhaps that's what people thought women like her were good for – selling their bodies. Perhaps that's what the men there had thought of her tonight – that she was added inventory to the station, to be purchased and used at their leisure for the right price. The thought frightened, disgusted, and shamed her.

Ultimately she knew that Forrest would never let anything horrible happen to her as long as he could prevent it, but she needed to give him something in return. She needed to play by his rules and rely on his experience where she had none. If for no other reason than she did not want to continue to put him in compromising situations. This evening should have been a run of the mill, easy, pleasant transaction, not one laced with violence. She knew enough by now to know that the situation with James could have been much, much worse, but she never should have found herself there in the first place.

_Next time, Jack_, she thought with small amusement, _you are on your own._

She tilted her face upward again, the rain having done nothing by way of letting up. If anything, it was raining much harder now. She glanced toward the station, and noticed that there was a little glow coming from the downstairs area – almost as if a small lamp was lit and was casting its light as far across the room as it could manage. The light made her wonder if Forrest was up and awake now; perhaps she had woken him earlier. She decided to go in and see for herself; if he was there, Francie knew that she owed him both an apology and her gratitude, though she shrank slightly from the thought of facing him after – after what happened at the door. She hurried through the downpour, drenched to the bone and shivering, but feeling cleansed and clear-headed now.

She leapt up the steps to the porch, noting her dirty feet with regret. Perhaps she could clean them at the sink. She pushed open the door, and saw that the glow emanated from a small lap on the sideboard next to the door. Next to the lamp was a neatly folded towel, and on the floor was a bucket filled with water. She hesitantly dipped in a toe, and was surprised when she felt the warm temperature.

As she cleaned her feet, she bit back a little smile. She knew this was his way of trying to make amends with her after their little scene, and it warmed her heart. She knew she still owed him an apology, and he would get it, but not tonight. She wouldn't disturb him further. She took up the towel and dried off, her skin feeling supple and soft from its bath in the rain, and fluffed out her long curly hair. She wrapped the towel around her body and took the lamp before walking up the stairs. When she reached the hallway, she saw that now Forrest's bedroom door was ajar. She couldn't help it; she let a full smile cross her lips as she peered into the darkness.

"Good night, Forrest," she called softly. She turned toward her own door, then stopped short when she heard a throat grumbling.

"Good night."

She turned slightly to look over her shoulder, but nothing else came from his room. Still, it was more than she expected, and she smiled again, hoping he could see her. Quietly, she opened her door and slipped inside her bedroom, snuffing out the lamp.

:O:O:O:

The next morning, it was Jack who was waiting for her downstairs. He sat up straight and smiled brightly at her when he saw her. Francie glanced around. Forrest hadn't been upstairs when she'd stepped out of her bedroom, and he wasn't anywhere to be seen now.

"Good morning, Jack," she said. "Did you have a nice time last night?"

"Good morning, Miss Francie," he replied. "Yes, I did. Thank you." He glanced down awkwardly at his feet, scuffing the toe of his boot against the bottom of the bar. "Er, Miss Francie, I heard that you had some trouble last night."

_Which part?_ she wondered sarcastically. "Nothing to fret over, Jack. I'm just fine."

"Yeah, Howard said you slapped the taste outta that boy's mouth," Jack said admiringly. "Said he could hear it in Forrest's office." He chuckled, then cleared his throat. "Miss Francie, it was awful nice of you to cover for me, but I can't let you do that again. I – I shoulda known better than to take off for my own selfish desires. I have a responsibility here. And, well, you coulda been hurt. You know this bar, this really ain't no place for a woman, and I'm quite fond of you, see. I wouldn't want nothin' bad to happen to you. I won't ask you to do that again."

"You didn't ask me, Jack," Francie said lightly. "I offered. Remember?" She thought about saying more, and then recalled her own thoughts from the night before, and continued without letting him say anything. "But I thank you for your concern and if you feel it's best that you handle these matters from this point forward, I shall certainly do whatever you and your brothers think is best." Jack bobbed his head, looking pleased with her answer. "Where – where are your brothers?" she continued casually.

"Oh, Howard and Forrest, they went out to the stills this mornin', start takin' inventory for that big ol' load that Floyd Banner placed with him last night. Figure out how much more we need to cook up to fill it out." Jack plopped his hat on his head. "Forrest said that 'cause I wasn't here last night, today it's my job to see you safely to the shop and back, and bring you lunch at noon."

"Well, that's very kind of you, Jack." Francie glanced at the clock on the wall. "Oh, dear. We'd better hurry."

She quickly fixed herself some bread and jam to take along and eat on the way, and followed Jack out to his car. He chattered to her all the way to town, and most of it was about Bertha. Francie smiled at his prattling; he was so different than Forrest who was always content to be so quiet. Jack dropped her off at the shop, waiting to pull off until she was safely inside. He returned at noon with her lunch, much to Mrs. Everett's pleasure, and Francie was entertained while she ate by the way Mrs. Everett exclaimed over the twenty-one year old young man, making him turn in a circle before her so she could "get a good look at him". He was thoroughly embarrassed and reddened even more when Mrs. Everett sent him out the door with a sharp smack to his rear end.

"Boy's got the tightest little – " Mrs. Everett muttered, then glanced at Francie's shocked expression. "Oh, what? He does. I'm just an old bag, anyway. No harm done. Eat up, girl. These hems aren't going to sew themselves."

Jack returned that evening to pick her up, and Francie grinned at the way he stayed put behind the wheel of the car, beckoning for Francie to hurry. Mrs. Everett gave him a fluttery wave, which he politely returned. When Francie was seated beside him, he pulled off, complaining, "My rear end still smarts from that ol' horny lady."

Francie laughed aloud. "Come, now. She just has a special place in her heart for you Bondurant boys."

"I bet she does," he muttered darkly, unconsciously rubbing his rear. He glanced slyly at Francie. "And what about you, Miss Francie? You got us a special place in your heart?"

Francie smirked a little at him. "Why, of course. Especially you, Jack. You've got the biggest place. You're like the little brother I never had."

"Aw, shucks," Jack said with a big grin. "I'm right flattered, I am. Gotta tell you though, I think that my brother Forrest has the biggest place in _your _heart."

"What makes you say that?" Francie asked. "Your brother and I are, at this point, merely business acquaintances. He told me he's protecting his investment."

Jack snorted. "Forrest says a whole lotta shit that ain't foolin' no one, pardon m'French," he said wryly. "I seen the way that boy looks at you. And you, him."

"Surprised you see anything with the way you do nothing but moon over Bertha all the time," Francie shot back, eager to change the subject. "Jack, when are you going to marry that girl?"

"Part of the reason I'm away so much spendin' time over there is so that I can work up the damn courage to ask her Pa for her hand," he admitted. "He's a hard man to get through, Miss Francie. Scares me a little, to be truly honest with you. But I think he's startin' to come around. I ain't worked up the courage to ask him outright yet but I think he knows that's what I'm fixin' to do."

"Be patient, then," she replied. "Keep at it. He will come around. You're a good man, Jack. He'll see it."

Jack bobbed his head humbly. "So you keep tellin' me, Miss Francie, and I sure do appreciate it." His smile turned mischievous. "Y'know, they say my brother Forrest is a good man also."

Francie sighed out an exasperated laugh. Jack was something else. "Yes, Jack. Your brother Forrest and also your brother Howard are both very good men too." Something pulled at her memory from the previous night; something she wanted to know about, but she knew she could never ask Forrest. Jack was like an open book to her, however, so she decided to take the plunge. "Jack. Tell me about Maggie, please."

Jack's eyes practically bugged out of his skull. "Why – why do you wanna know about Maggie, Miss Francie?"

"Your brother said something last night – that's not important. I overheard you all talking about her the other morning. I just wondered who she was." She paused and bit her lip. "She was Forrest's lover?"

"She was," Jack admitted. "He, uh – he fell pretty hard for her. She was a pretty redhead from Chicago. Came down here to escape the city. She was a showgirl up there. Anyway, she come here to work at the station. She and Forrest, well – they 'em a strong bond."

"What happened to her?" Francie asked. She couldn't help the tiny pinpricks of jealousy she felt at hearing that Forrest had once loved another woman. It was silly, she chastised herself. Forrest owed her absolutely nothing, and they meant nothing to each other. Besides, he was a beautiful man. Naturally he'd had a lover.

"One day, shortly after me and Forrest got out of the hospital from the shoot-out –ah," he caught himself too late and cleared his throat, "after we got home and started mendin', Maggie, she just…" Jack trailed off and shrugged, regret evident in every line of him. "She just decided she couldn't take it out here anymore, watch Forrest get shot up again. She's the one took him to the hospital that night he got attacked and got his throat cut. She hauled his heavy ass into her truck, drove him to the hospital. Made sure he got all the medical attention he would never want. All the while, none of us knowin' she needed help too."

"She needed help for what?" Francie asked.

Jack turned a brilliant shade of red. "Well, the night he got his throat cut, she came back to talk to him, and, ah –" Jack cleared his throat again and tugged on his collar a little. "Well, the fellers that done it to Forrest, they hadn't left the station yet, and, ah. When she come inside, they was waitin' for her. And, ah. They, ah." He gripped the steering wheel.

Dread filling her stomach, Francie helped him out. "They raped her."

Jack sighed heavily and nodded, his hazel eyes glued to the road. "Yes, ma'am. They did."

Francie fell silent. No wonder Forrest was so utterly concerned for her safety to the point of anger with her; she didn't know what she actually meant to him, but she was certain he couldn't watch another woman in his life endure such brutality. A flood of sympathy filled her for a woman she would never know.

"I 'spect that's why he was so hard on you last night," Jack said softly after a long silence, startling Francie with his virtual echoing of her thoughts. "He does care for you, Miss Francie. I know he don't act like it, but I never seen my brother set such a store by any woman, not even Maggie. I know he loved Maggie, don't get me wrong. But the way my brother Forrest looks at you, the way he follows you with his eyes, the way he's always makin' sure you're taken care of and safe – well, ma'am, I'm just a young man without much experience when it come to matters of the heart, but I believe my brother is quite taken with you." His smile was sincere and free of any teasing. "He took it real hard when Maggie left him. Real hard. I think he still has hurts over it today. But I think you're helpin' him, in his own way. He just – he just don't know how to behave sometimes. If you ask me, I think he's scared to get his heart broke again." Suddenly, the baby Bondurant paled and snapped his head to look at Francie. "Please, don't you tell him I said so, Miss Francie!"

Francie patted his hand absently, her mind whirling. "Don't worry, Jack. I won't say anything at all."

_Taken with me?_

When Jack pulled into the station, Forrest's truck was parked out front. She followed Jack inside, immediately seeing Forrest behind the bar, frying some hamburgers for a couple of men at the counter. He was puffing on a cigar and he glanced at her out of the corners of his eyes when they walked in. Jack immediately greeted the men he recognized, guffawing with them and making good-natured insults. Howard was seated at a table with another couple of men, his long legs stretched out in front of him, swigging at his jar of moonshine.

Francie knew that Forrest would expect her to go upstairs, especially when every set of male eyes eventually made their way in her direction, so she nodded at him quickly as she passed. She would play by his rules. Her heart throbbed a little with sadness for him, now that she knew he suffered a deep pain from losing a woman he had loved – by her own voluntary decision. He was a good man; he didn't deserve to be abandoned.

As she passed the counter, he reached out quickly and gently, much more gently than he had last night, took hold of her forearm. He had moved so fast she hadn't seen him, and she jumped a little in surprise. She blinked at him.

"Yes, Forrest?"

"Made you some dinner. It's upstairs."

She swallowed. His thoughtfulness never failed to surprise her. "Thank you, very much. That is just where I'm headed."

He nodded slightly and let her go, beginning to turn toward the stove. She hesitated, ignoring the stares and smirks she was drawing, and then screwed up her courage and leaned over the counter. "Forrest?"

He glanced over his shoulder at her with a little frown. "Yeah. What?"

"Would you –" She glanced at the man next to her, who was shamelessly staring at her and listening to their conversation.

"Harry, why don't you take your nosy ass across the room just now, huh?" Forrest said gruffly to the man. "I'll let you know when your order's up."

"Yeah, fine," Harry grumbled. He gave Francie a leering stare and then got up to shuffle away to an empty table.

"What you want, Francie?" Forrest asked quietly, not unkindly.

"When you get a moment," she said, talking low and fast before she lost her nerve, "I'd like to talk to you upstairs, please. It's not urgent, so please take your time and tend to your business down here." She shot him a very quick smile before she turned away, without waiting for his reply.

Of all the eyes she felt on her in the room, the heat from the stare she knew he was giving her was scorching.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Happy friday...read and review!**

**Chapter 16**

"Detective Rollins," Mrs. Lattimore said icily over her cup of tea. "I have a son who just recently came to from the jaws of death that some little _whore _put him into before making off with priceless family heirlooms and all of my son's money. Needless to say, he needs me. Please explain to me why I am having a cup of the world's worst tea in _Atlanta_ with you now."

Detective Rollins tried to mask his annoyance with the woman. _Entitled bitch,_ he thought bitterly. He flexed his jaw and the ache was intense. He had woken up in his rented automobile two days ago and though his mind had been hazy, he'd backtracked out of Franklin County to Roanoke. There, he'd telegraphed Mrs. Lattimore, asking her to meet him in Atlanta, knowing that would be the furthest the woman would be willing to travel. As for him, he had to seek medical attention in the meantime, and had done so. The doctors had tried to get him to talk, to tell them what had really happened, but Rollins held his tongue. That bastard Bondurant had managed to knock out two of his teeth and loosen four others, had broken his nose, fractured his cheekbone, and the cut that had resulted from him slamming the butt of the gun into his temple had required twenty-three stitches.

Rollins was not a happy man.

Though he considered himself to be a professional, diligent man, there was also a spark in him, a rage, a hair-trigger temper that lurked just below his smooth demeanor. It was part of the reason why he had decided to go into business for himself. His business, his rules – which were no rules. Unless "by any means necessary" counted as a rule.

It was this temper that had caused him to strike the young lady, Miss Fontaine. She'd been so uncooperative, and had actually thought that attempting to justify her actions with the Lattimores would somehow acquit her of all of the things she had done. Really, he couldn't have cared less what happened to the girl; he cared about collecting his fee from the wealthy, horrible Lattimore family. And if she didn't come with him, he didn't collect. He had found himself infuriated with her refusal to cooperate, and in that fury, he had struck her. He would have liked to do more, but the stupid little bitch had screamed, and that burly young man who he had very recently come to find out was none other than the legendary bootlegger Forrest Bondurant had broken her door down as though he were born to be her champion and knocked him to the floor with a mean set of brass knuckles.

At first, he'd had no idea who the man had been or where he'd taken the girl, but it didn't take a great deal of effort to make an educated guess about the man's identity. The legend of the Bondurants, who supposedly could not die and had walked away from world wars, the Spanish influenza, a slit throat, and numerous bullet wounds, stretched far beyond that shit-kicking town of Franklin County into other areas of Virginia, and beyond. He was shocked that the Chicagoans, the New Yorkers, the Bostonians, even the mobs in other far-off states knew all about the Bondurants. Almost all of their bootlegging operations had sampled the infamous Bondurant moonshine and apple brandy, and he was surprised to learn that their product had reached even the west coast of the nation.

So, Francesca Fontaine had a bunch of bootleggers in her back pocket, did she? Rollins smirked. He didn't give a damn if she was in bed with the Capones. All he cared about was completing the job that he'd been hired to do and then getting the hell out of there. He despised the Lattimores. But they were wealthy, and his fee would be the largest he had ever collected. If only he could get his hands on the little bird.

His jaw ached again, and he clenched it. He wouldn't mind getting a little revenge, either. Detective Rollins fancied himself a man not to be crossed; and Forrest Bondurant, that ignorant backwoods hillbilly, had made the mistake of crossing him. It was a personal slight that would not go unanswered. Rollins clenched his fist under the table. He would be the one to bring an end to that stupid legend that followed those hicks around wherever they went. He'd show them that they were, indeed, mortal, and he'd show them by murdering each of them in front of the other. He had no personal qualms with the other two brothers; but killing them first and in front of Forrest would be the icing on the cake. The cherry would be the death of Forrest, himself.

Rollins smirked. And, after he'd killed the Bondurants, there would be nothing to save Miss Fontaine from having her lovely round little ass dragged back to New Orleans and dealt with however the Lattimores felt was appropriate. And he would still collect. He would win – all around.

"What are you smirking at, you oaf?" Mrs. Lattimore hissed across the table at him. "Have you heard a word I have said to you? Where is this little bitch? And what in God's name happened to your face?"

The latter question was asked with decidedly less concern and more annoyance than Detective Rollins personally appreciated, but he chose to ignore it. "I almost had her. She's in Franklin County, Virginia. She's fallen in with some bootleggers and one of them, shall we say, _prevented _me from apprehending her. However, I have information as to who this man is, who he's with, and unless Miss Fontaine has fled the town, I'm sure I know where to find her."

"And how did you acquire all of that information?" Mrs. Lattimore demanded.

Rollins allowed himself a little smug smile. "I can be rather personable when I want to, madam. I made friends with some young men in a speakeasy last night on their way back from Franklin County and discovered that they work for a Mr. Floyd Banner, a famous mobster who runs a bootlegging operation out of Chicago. One of these young men also had a bit of an unpleasant to-do with the Bondurants. He was only too eager to share everything he knew. And I believe he may prove to be a valuable asset in helping us achieve our goal."

"And how is that?" Mrs. Lattimore said, setting her china cup delicately in its saucer.

"It turns out this particular young man is not fond of mixed blood," Rollins said softly. "He appears to be a staunch supporter of Jim Crow. I believe he has many friends who believe the same." He paused. "Friends who have occasional meetings, who have a very distinct calling card."

"Are you referring to the Klan?" Mrs. Lattimore asked.

Rollins smiled thinly. "Let me worry about the logistics of all of this, madam. It should please you to know that vengeance will soon be in your hands."

"In _Thomas's_," she corrected. "_Thomas _deserves to strangle the life from this woman, to end her miserable existence!" Her voice raised at the end, drawing several curious stares from patrons in the restaurant.

"Madam, compose yourself," Rollins said quietly, patting the air. "I'll see to everything and make all the arrangements. All you need to do is continue living your life and wait for my good news."

"Yes," Mrs. Lattimore said, still breathing hard. "Yes. You are right." She reached across the table and laid a bony hand on Rollins' arm. "Your service is invaluable. You will be rewarded handsomely, I promise." She licked her lips and eyed him in what he assumed she fancied to be a seductive manner. "If there is anything – _anything_ – else that you need or desire, please do not hesitate to let me know."

Rollins did his very best to not physically recoil in disgust. Instead he very gently patted the claw on his arm and then removed it and set it on the table. "You are too kind, madam. I believe I have everything I need. If you will excuse me." He rose from the table and bowed slightly, then exited the restaurant.

He shook off the last of his disgust, thinking that maybe he might ask for his fee to be increased slightly, and headed down the street toward his hotel. He'd have a few days to rest and relax, heal, and make some phone calls. His lips pulled into a thin line, something between a grimace and a smirk.

_I'm on my way, little bird,_ he thought. _You and your guard dog better have all the fun you can manage in the meantime._

His step lighter, Rollins whistled a jaunty little tune as best he could out of his broken mouth and carried on down the street.

:O:O:O:

Forrest hadn't intended to keep Francie waiting long, despite what she'd said, but for some blasted reason, it seemed that tonight all of the men in town wanted to come to his place. Surprisingly, Jack stayed in that evening, helping Forrest behind the bar with the customers. The upside was there was a great deal of money made that evening.

Unfortunately it was several hours later when he was finally able to step away. There were still a few stragglers behind, too drunk to move more than anything, really. Howard was engrossed in a game of poker with a few other men, and Jack was idly scraping burnt meat out of the skillet. Forrest washed his hands at the sink, glancing outside and seeing yet another thick wall of storm clouds rolling in. He dried his hands, said a few quiet words to Jack to mind the station for a bit, and took to the stairs.

He saw the glow from her lamp under the seam of her door, and it was slightly ajar. He rapped his knuckles lightly on the door frame.

"Francie," he said quietly. He heard nothing, so he pushed the door open a little and poked his head in the room.

She had fallen asleep waiting for him. She had changed out of her clothing into a nightslip with her robe on for modesty's sake. She was lying on top of the quilt as though she hadn't intended to fall asleep. He took a few silent steps toward her until he stood over her. He looked down at her face, and just watched it quietly for a little while.

Her face was smooth and even in repose, as though she weren't being harassed by nightmares any longer. The glow of the lamp illuminated her skin into a soft, hazy golden color, as though she were a perfectly formed bronze statue. Her lips were parted slightly, her face turned a little to the side. Her curly black hair spread out over her pillow. She looked angelic, and it made Forrest's insides turn over a little. He sat down carefully on the edge of her bed, not wanting to startle her even though he knew she was a heavy sleeper. She didn't stir even when the mattress shifted under his weight. He watched her for a moment longer, then reached out to gently shake her shoulder.

It took a bit more insistent shaking to bring her fully awake, and a little frown creased her forehead, as though she hated to be brought back to the conscious world. She pulled a deep breath in through her nose as her black-ringed, crystal blue eyes opened lazily, her long black eyelashes fluttering like wings. His eyes shifted sharply to her mouth when her tongue slipped out to draw her slightly dry bottom lip between her teeth to moisten it and she looked at him. Her lip pulled lazily out of her teeth, plump and pink, and she smiled gently up at him.

Forrest rose abruptly and turned to walk over to the window, away from the bed, shoving his tightly clenched fists deep down in his pockets. If he sat there a moment longer, looking at her skin, her face, her lips, he knew he would finish what he started in his office, and more.

"Forrest," she said breathily, as a yawn tugged at her voice. She covered her mouth with a small, delicate hand, the tips of her fingers brushing her lips. He wrenched his eyes away, looking out the window at the clouds.

"What'd you wanna talk to me about?" he asked brusquely. He hadn't intended to sound so gruff, so curt, but he didn't know how much longer he could stand there, fighting the urge to crush her body to his and devour her mouth the way he'd wanted to since the first day he'd seen her, fighting the urge to rip that robe and that _goddamn_ _nightie_ off her body and lose himself in it, buried to the hilt inside her curves, touching and tasting everything. _Been too long without a woman_, he decided. It was the only reason for him to feel this way. Granted, he understood that Francie was a woman, perfectly capable of satiating that lust, that need that burned in his veins. But he'd rather give himself a hand than use her body for that purpose. He knew she didn't particularly care for him much personally, and especially after last night when he'd likely scared her to death, he couldn't exactly ask her permission to touch the skin he found himself so utterly obsessed with.

"Sorry I kept you waitin' so long," he grudgingly added as an afterthought. "I didn't intend to wake you."

"It's all right." She swung her legs off the bed and he glanced back. Her robe opened slightly in the front, giving him a good peek down the front of that accursed negligee, and he averted his eyes quickly. _Stop lookin' at her._

She joined him at the window and he stiffened when he felt the warmth from her body as her arm touched his. He moved over imperceptibly to make room for her so she wouldn't have to touch him. Because every time she did, she pushed him a little closer to toppling off the edge of his self-control.

"Would you open the window, please, Forrest?" she asked. He reached out and pushed the window open, and immediately the fresh, sharp scent of oncoming rain filled the room. He glanced at Francie out of the corner of his eyes and watched as she tilted her head back and closed her eyes a little, inhaling deeply. "It smells wonderful."

He could only smell her, an aroma so fragrant he could taste it, but he nodded once. "Umm. Yes, it does. What did you want to talk to me about?"

She turned to face him. He kept his eyes facing firmly forward, glaring out across the land as he heard a roll of thunder in the distance. She paused, almost waiting to see if he would look at her. When he didn't, she gently pressed a hand to his arm to encourage him to turn. He did, but it was more of a sharp turn, his arm instinctively flying up to fling her hand off of him. He cursed himself for his jumpiness, seeing a look of hurt flash over her face briefly. He returned his hands to his pockets and looked at the floor.

"I just – I just wished to speak to about some of the things you said to me last night," she said softly. "First, I want to apologize to you." He looked up at her sharply, his eyes going over her face. He'd acted like a brute, and _she _wanted to apologize to _him? _"You were right. I have been making poor choices, out of ignorance, and as a result you have been going above and beyond to clean up my messes. And I am sorry, Forrest."

"Nothin' to fret over," he said gruffly, looking away again.

"I want you to know that I'm not truly this foolish of a person. You were right when you said I was pampered and sheltered. I have lived my entire life that way. I know nothing of the ways of the world or the bad things that happen to women. Women like me," she said pointedly, and he knew what she was referencing when her fingers played at the locket around her neck. She paused for a moment, almost as though she was holding her breath. "And women like Maggie."

Forrest slowly turned his head to stare at her. "What did you just say?"

Francie swallowed visibly, paling, but she kept her gaze steadily on his. "I said, women like Maggie." Her voice trembled just a little, but she kept her chin lifted. Now, he did turn to face her head on, and took a step toward her. To her credit, though her eyes widened a little, she did not step back away from him.

"And what in the goddamn hell do you know about Maggie?" Forrest said, his deep voice rich with warning and agitation. To be sure, he couldn't figure out why it bothered him so much to hear this woman speak the name of his lost love. But it did, and he felt like breaking something. His fists balled tight in his pockets.

"I know who she was to you, Forrest," Francie went on, bravely in his opinion. "I know she was your lover, and she left you. I know she was raped in this station." She took a deep breath. "And I know you hold yourself accountable for that."

Forrest stared at her, clenching his jaw so tight he thought he might have cracked a tooth. Finally, he heaved a heavy sigh. "Goddamn Jack," he muttered irascibly.

"Please don't be upset with him," Francie said gently, hesitantly reaching out to place a hand on his arm. He tensed, but this time he didn't throw her off. As if that encouraged her, she stroked his skin lightly with her thumb. The sensation flamed up his arm and over his chest and his nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply. "He meant no harm. Only to offer an explanation of why – of why you got so upset with me."

Forrest watched her thumb move soothingly over his skin for a while. "I shouldn't have put my hands on you," he said rigidly. "Shouldn't have done that. I was – I was raised to know better."

"I'm not upset," she said softly. "You didn't hurt me."

"I squeezed your arms hard enough to leave bruises," he said in a low voice. "You're a woman, after all. Your skin is –" Unbidden, his mind rushed back to the night he'd drunkenly climbed into bed beside her and touched every proper inch of her skin. It was like silk. "Your skin is soft. I'm sure I left a mark or two."

His voice had unconsciously taken on a lower timbre as he talked of her skin, and her thumb stopped moving. Her hand dropped away and he finally looked into her face, seeing her cheeks redden. Whether it was from him talking of her skin or an admission that he _had _in fact left a mark, he didn't know, but he pressed forward.

"Let me see," he said, trying to gentle his voice. Her eyes were on the floor and her arms crossed over her chest. "Francie," he said slowly. "Let me see."

She glanced up at him, her eyes pleading with him, but he merely stared unflinchingly back. Reluctantly her hands slowly pulled at the belt of her robe, undoing it, and she opened it just enough to let it fall from her shoulders while still preserving her modesty. He couldn't help staring; the slow way she undid the robe threatened to undo _him_. He felt himself swelling slightly in his trousers and he shook his head quickly. "Come here."

She took a step toward him, her eyes still on the floor, and he pulled her next to the lamp to see better. He gently took a hold of her shoulders, like he should have done last night, and studied her skin as anger filled him; anger at himself. Dark bruises speckled the soft flesh of her upper arms, exactly where his fingers had dug in. "I – I'm sorry 'bout this," he muttered, releasing her. He looked away as she tightened her robe around her body once more.

"Forrest, I said I'm not upset," Francie said, softly but insistently. "I understand. You were very angry with me. You might still be. That's why I wanted to talk to you. To let you know I understand what you said to me last night. I do need to be more cautious and mindful so you don't feel obligated to come to rescue every other day."

Hearing his own words said back to him made him cringe. "I shouldn't have said that to you. I ain't under any obligation to no one, 'specially not you. I didn't try to help you 'cause I felt I needed to. I helped you 'cause I wanted to. 'Cause I didn't want to see nothin' bad happen to you." _Because you couldn't help Maggie, you couldn't save her. She had to save you. You're a Bondurant and _you_ had to be saved. And she got raped trying to save you._

"I know," she said gently. Surprise flooded him when she took a step closer, and reached up to touch his cheek. He restrained himself from recoiling from her automatically. Her fingertips were soft and cool on his rough, scruffy cheek, and it was all he could do to keep his eyes from closing against her touch. Instead he bit the inside of his cheek and stared hard into her eyes as they moved over his face.

"I don't want you to harbor any guilt should something happen to me," Francie went on. Her voice was hushed and soft in the room but she was so close he could hear her clearly, even over the blood roaring in his ears. "And with that detective around, something might. But I promise you, I'm going to be much more cautious about the things I do. And I won't fight you. You understand things more than I do; you know what's safe and what isn't."

"Might start by knockin' off that job at the juke," Forrest murmured, finding it hard to verbalize words as her other hand had come up to touch his neck slightly, right on his scar where it curved around the side of his neck. Instead of the nerves being destroyed from the cutting, the skin where his scar was felt even more sensitive and he tightened every muscle in his body to keep from shivering when her fingers brushed it lightly.

He expected to be met with resistance at his suggestion, but she surprised him again by nodding, almost absently, as her eyes shifted to his neck. "All right. I shall speak to Miz Judy tomorrow." She lifted her eyes to his face and tilted her head, just a little. "Is there anything else I should do, Forrest?"

The question hung in the air and he immediately registered the way her voice had gone even softer, the fingers of both hands very lightly stroking his cheek and his neck simultaneously. He swallowed hard, wondering if she would ever look away from his eyes, and she did. She started looking at his mouth.

Before he knew consciously what he was doing, he felt his hands move from his pockets to her waist, and not gingerly, either. He ran his hands over the sides of her waist until they met at her back and he gathered her up close against him, his fingers gripping hard enough to where he thought he might be leaving some more marks. Her breath left her in a soft little "_Oh!"_ escaping between those goddamn lips of hers, but she didn't try to pull away from him. He wouldn't have let her even if she had tried – he had fought a battle, a stupid, useless battle, he had lost the battle, and he was glad for it.

He was aware his breath was coming in hard, short pants as he brought his face to hers, and he was aware that she was breathing just as hard and even trembling a little against him. He hoped it wasn't because she was afraid of him, he really did, but in that moment he didn't care. He cared about _nothing_ except for one thing – tasting her mouth.

Her hands had fallen to his chest and she gripped his vest tightly in both hands, her breathing ragged. Her back arched a little when he leaned into her, only serving to push her body even tighter up against his own, and his forehead pressed against hers as he feasted his eyes on her lips the way a starving man would eye a steak dinner, trying to figure out where to begin and how to best go about satiating himself. She let out a tiny sound then, something that was a cross between a whimper and frustrated grunt as she tugged him closer.

He brushed her nose with his and then quickly took her mouth. All he could register was softness, softness like the pillows he laid his head on at night; two moist, soft pillows and he pulled gently at them with his own eager lips. She made another sound in the back of her throat, another little whimpery sound as he pulled off her lips only to go right back in for another turn because the first time was too fast, too short. He vaguely registered that he was now shaking, too, ever so slightly, shaking with a deep, aching need and he sucked at her lips again, his own lips very moist because he was salivating for her.

"Well, you can go fuck yourself sixty ways from Sunday, for all I give a tinker's fuck!"

The rude shout filled the room and startled him, and Forrest came back to himself in an instant at the jarring noise from outside. It was so loud it sounded as if it came from this very bedroom. He pulled away from Francie again, the second kiss over much too fast; it ended before it had really started and let her go, his body screaming obscenities at him as he went to the window.

One of the drunks from the station was outside in the front, lurching drunkenly to his car. His brothers were following him out with a couple of other men.

"Now, Harry, don't be such a sore loser," Howard called teasingly from below. "I beat ya fair and square. I'll collect from ya tomorrow, though, don't you worry. I ain't forgettin' what you owe me! Ten whole bucks!"

"You can take those ten bucks, and shove 'em up your ass, you fuck," Harry slurred back.

Forrest frowned and leaned out the window. "Harry, why don't you shut your goddamn mouth," he called down gruffly, annoyed. "Someone drive his drunk ass home. I won't have him gettin' into a wreck and leave his blood on our hands. Samuel. Drive him home."

"Forrest, Jimbo and Lefty Brown are inside askin' for ya," Jack called up to his brother. Forrest looked down at him and saw that there was an amused expression on his baby brother's face as he noted which window it was that Forrest was leaning out of. "They says they wanna talk to you about supplyin' for the barn dance next week."

"Alright," Forrest said in a low voice. "I'm comin' down."

He stepped away from the window and turned slowly, glancing at Francie from the corner of his eyes. She was standing near the little table with the lamp, one hand resting lightly on it, and her chest was heaving silently as she stared at him with wide eyes. At first he thought she was mad at him for losing control of himself and his senses the way he had, but then in a flash he remembered the frantic way she had grabbed at him, the way her lips shook under his and slid against them, yielding to both of his suckling kisses. He looked at her mouth and wanted nothing more than to lock the two of them into this bedroom, his office, a closet, the storage shed, and take her mouth over and over and over again, followed shortly by her body. He wanted to tell her how happy it made him to hear that she was going to take better care of herself – not because he was annoyed at intervening on behalf of her life and well-being, but because she understood that he couldn't watch anything bad happen to another woman he cared about.

And goddammit all to _fucking hell_, but he cared about this woman. This strange-looking woman, so full of contrasts with her bright blue eyes and dark golden skin, long curly raven hair with coarse and silken strands, and those pouty luscious pillows on her delicate face. She was damaged, she had sinned, and her days with him were more than likely numbered given the target on her back and the people on her trail, but he wanted it all.

All of this rushed around in his mind like a cyclone as he stared at her.

"Gotta go downstairs," was all he could manage, and without another word, he left her.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

It had taken most of the day to be sure, but by Wednesday evening, Francie was certain that Forrest was avoiding her. Once again, that morning it had been Jack to cheerfully drive her to work, to bring her lunch at noon, and to take her back to the station when her shift was over. And Forrest hadn't been there when she'd risen in the morning, and when she came back that evening, he had been coming down the stairs just as she was about to ascend. He'd stopped on the staircase, standing silently to the side to give her room to pass, and hadn't looked at her.

Francie was, to say the very least, confused. All night and all day she had been able to think of nothing else except the feeling of Forrest's mouth on her own. The first kiss had taken her by surprise, but she had recovered in a nanosecond and by the time his lips had pulled sensuously at her own once more, she was ready to slide her arms around his neck and open her mouth for him, wanting to taste him completely. But it had ended abruptly, before she got the chance, and then he was mumbling something to her and stalking out of her room, shutting the door behind him.

She wondered if she had displeased him in some way – perhaps he hadn't enjoyed kissing her. But, though she had been without true passion in a number of years, there was still something about the way Forrest's body been shaking slightly, something about his ragged breath, his moist mouth, that made her believe that he wanted her, and that he might have even tried to take her had they not been interrupted. The thought made her stomach feel fluttery, as though it were a jar containing a dozen brightly beautiful butterflies inside.

She stood in her room now after having prepared a light supper. At this point, she had silently and happily assumed the duty of preparing meals for the Bondurant men, if not cooking for their customers. Only Jack had actually dined with her tonight, and she had made up a couple of plates for Howard and Forrest for whenever they returned from wherever they were at. Jack had mumbled something about them being at the stills, or heading into town to pick up a large order of mason jars from Miz Judy's store, or meeting with so-and-so. Most of it had gone in one ear and out the other, Francie's head far too full of thoughts and confusion to really pay the boy any mind. He was working the bar and the grill downstairs now, after having politely shooed her upstairs after they had taken their meal together. She could hear that there weren't too many customers downstairs now, and she was sure that Jack was taking a stool, drawing up a hand of poker and in general completely shirking his duties.

She opened her window and leaned on the sill, looking out across the fields and the sky. It was perfectly quiet as the sun stained the horizon a deep burnt orange color, bidding the day a cheery farewell with the promise of returning again tomorrow, sinking low and melding into the land. The sky was filled with dark gray clouds but Francie sensed they wouldn't break, not tonight. Nonetheless, the air held a crisp, clean smell, and she shut her eyes and drank it in.

After changing out of the day's clothing she had put on for work, she had found a simple cotton nightie and thrown it on, knowing she wouldn't be leaving her room again for the night. She had intended to read, somehow miraculously digging out a worn, well-loved copy of _Lady Chatterley's Lover_ from her suitcase. She had no recollection of packing the book and must have grabbed it along with whatever other objects had been resting on her vanity in her haste to leave her home in New Orleans. There had been such a to-do about the book when it had been published a few years ago, and Francie had managed to get her hands on a copy before it had eventually been banned from further publishing and sale. The salacious, romantic and frankly erotic story never failed to make her blush but nonetheless, she had read the story seventeen times now, by her count. It was one of her favorite books. She had managed a few pages of a chapter before memories of the previous night flooded her mind, and she couldn't decide if the sexy novel was helping with that or not. She was inclined to not think so based on the warm flush spreading through her and the way her heart beat was accelerating in her chest.

She had decided that a little fresh air might be in order, and now she hung out the window, scanning the peaceful land, letting her mind whirl like mad. She knew she was a lifelong country girl, no matter where her life's journeys might take her. A brief shadow fell over her heart; she might very well end up locked in prison for the rest of her life, if not outright killed, she thought, but nothing would ever pull the deep-rooted sense of peace she got at dusk in the country. It settled over her soul like a lovingly knitted quilt, embracing her, comforting her, bringing a sense of calm to the very essence of her being that she knew she would never find anywhere else.

Virginia was very different from her home state. Louisiana was warm, humid, full of swamplands and had an almost tropical climate. By contrast, Virginia was mountainous, forested, lush with green plains as far as the eye could see, and blue skies. It was beautiful. She had never imagined living anywhere else other than Louisiana, but now, after having lived in Virginia for so many weeks, she found it agreed with her spirit.

At some point, she had fallen asleep at the window, one knee still upon the window seat, her foot tucked underneath her backside. She had rested her arms on the sill, and her head on her arms, and somewhere between enjoying the deliciously fresh breeze blowing gently into her face and noting the stars that had just begun to appear in the velvety night sky, repose had claimed her.

She slowly stirred when she felt something soft and gentle stroking the length of her neck down between her shoulder blades and back up. It felt wonderful, but was so unusual. However, the tingles that the touches spread over her skin was familiar in a very strange way. Her sleepy subconscious tried to place the sensation against her memories, and she realized she'd never felt anything quite like that before. Except – except –

Her first night in this room.

She cracked her eyes open, the alertness of her conscious mind at odds with her slumbering body. Her foot was dead, her knee ached, her neck was sore from the odd angle, and her shoulders hummed with discomfort from leaning on the sill for so long. She blinked rapidly, noting that it was now black outside, the stars on full display in the night sky. The lamp in her room had gone out, and there was someone behind her. Someone she recognized instantly from the scent of smoke, spice, pine and musky vanilla that suddenly filled the room and invaded her senses. She tried to speak, but only managed a tiny noise between a squeak and a grunt.

"Seen you from downstairs, outside, when we got back," a low voice murmured next to her head. It was rich, and deep, and rough, and brought to life every ounce of femininity she contained instantly. His fingers had ceased their movement against her skin but now rested lightly on her shoulder. "Don't know what kind of comfort a window sill can offer you, but you need to be layin' down in your bed, just now. It's late."

Slowly, Francie unfurled herself from her odd position, her joints and nerves berating her, and rose to her feet, turning. Forrest stood before her, looking at her and she could do nothing but look back at him for a moment either. He wore a brown vest and pants over a dark cotton shirt and was hatless. He held his hat in his hand. He looked so big compared to her, Francie thought, especially in her simple cotton shift. Big, and fearsome, and strong. It made her tingle even more intensely. She was inclined to cover herself with her arms, but then decided not to. Let him see her. Her eyes sought his in the dark.

_Touch me,_ she begged him silently. _Pull me to you as you did last night._

Instead, she said, "There's a plate for you downstairs. And for Howard."

"We saw 'em," Forrest replied. "Thank you." He licked his lips, his beautiful, plump, sensuous lips, the ones that had trembled a little as they had sucked against hers, and Francie nearly came undone. They stood together in silence again, looking, thinking. Francie wondered if he could sense her desire the way she could _smell_ him; he seemed so strangely withdrawn now but last night – last night she had seen it, a shred of his true want, his _need_, for just a moment, one unguarded moment. It couldn't just be her imagination, she thought, looking at his hands and remembering how they had shook and gripped her waist almost painfully hard, pressing against her back as he crushed her body against his own. She looked at his face again, most of it lost to the shadow in her room. _Please touch me,_ she begged him silently again.

"Best be layin' down now," he said quietly. Everything about him – his masculinity, his face, his eyes, his voice, his mouth – set her completely on fire, making her feel as if she might be losing her mind with her desire for him. If he were to only give her some indication, some signal that it would be acceptable, she would gladly and shamelessly have thrown herself against him and allowed him to do with her absolutely anything he wanted. Because it would be what she, herself, wanted. She shifted her weight and felt her thighs slide against each other, slick from the moisture that was suddenly present between her legs. She wanted to tell him. It was so wicked of her, she knew, so wanton and whorish, but she could do nothing to help it. She watched him study her, and draw a long, deep breath in through his nose, gripping his hat tightly in both hands. He looked away from her.

"I'll drive you tomorrow," he said gruffly, and she could only stare at the way his hands clenched around his hat tightly, wishing he would hold her waist, her thighs, that way. "I had – umm. I had some things to attend to today."

If he were waiting for her to speak, she couldn't; she didn't trust what might come out of her mouth if she opened. So she nodded her head a little.

"Best get some sleep, Francie," he said again, softly. After a moment, he turned for her door.

"Forrest," she said quickly, noting how her voice was husky now, roughened with lust.

He stopped immediately, glancing slightly over his shoulder with his hand on her doorknob. "Yeah?"

_Stay with me,_ she thought desperately. _Take me. Now. _Instead, she said, "Goodnight."

He grunted. "'Night."

When he left her room, she could have wept with disappointment and aching, unsatisfied need.

:O:O:O:

Once Forrest was safely back in his own room, he decided that tonight would be a night where he would keep his door closed. He generally slept that way, but now that he had a guest, one behind whom troubled followed like a puppy dog, he made a point to keep his door ajar so he could hear everything and make sure all was well. But currently, with the way his body was humming with need and desire, what he meant to do now demanded complete privacy.

Normally he didn't bother with giving himself a hand; before Maggie and after Maggie, the sexual part of himself generally lay dormant. Granted, he _was_ a man, and sometimes he gave into his needs. Usually, he paid them no mind. Without a woman around, his mind was constantly on business. And if it wasn't on business, he was asleep.

But now that Francie was around, he felt like a horny teenager again, unable to stop himself from following her with his eyes, imagining what her naked body looked like standing before him, how it would feel to enter her. He knew now what her lips tasted like, if not her entire mouth and tongue. And the fact that she had stood before him tonight again in just her nightie, without the modesty of a robe, had made him clench his hat so hard there were permanent indentations in the material from his fingers. It was almost as though she had done it on purpose, knowing the sight of the rosebuds standing up on her rounded breasts and pressing through the material of her slip, knowing she probably didn't have any drawers on underneath, would undo him. Her wild black hair, now outright curly, tumbled around her shoulders and down her back, making his fingers twitch from want of slipping underneath the mane to tangle in it, gripping for leverage as he had her body. She had stared at him, and he'd felt confused. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought that she was pleading with him in her crystal blue eyes, begging him to come near her. But that couldn't possibly be it. He'd acted like a brute last night, and had spent the day thinking it over and deciding that her reactions were based purely on surprise and fright. She'd been shaking because she'd been afraid, and she hadn't been grabbing at him to bring him closer; he was sure she'd been preparing to shove him away. Her mouth, though – that stumped him. He'd replayed it over and over in his mind, and her lips had trembled before they had pushed back against his own. It had felt like she'd been trying to kiss him back, but that just couldn't be. Why it couldn't be, he didn't know, but it just couldn't.

But in her room just now, the look in her eyes, her appearance, her smell – all of it had called out to him on a physiological level, making him start to grow inside his britches. If she had continued to look at him the way she had been, he was liable to grab her and throw her down on any flat surface he could find and take her like the brute he was showing himself to be. He had left her room abruptly, because if she saw what was growing steadily in his pants – because of her – she might have gone screaming for the hills.

Now, he lay in bed, one arm propped under his head while his other hand circled his length. In a rare moment of masculine ego, he was proud of what God had given him below the waist. Maggie had always liked it, and the few other women he'd had in his life had been intimidated by it but had come to love it, if they'd had seconds. As he ran his hand down his length to squeeze his tip, he wondered what Francie would think. Would she look at it with wide eyes, wondering how it might fit between her curvy hips? Would she be able to handle all of his length? Would she cry out? Forrest swirled his thumb over his tip, feeling some of his essence ooze out. He ran his hand up and down his length again, squeezing his eyes shut as he caught a fast rhythm.

He wondered if she would be as tight as his fist was around him now, how wet she would be. There was nothing like having a woman who was damp with want. That silky, creamy concoction a woman's body made at the point of her arousal had to be a gift from God; getting a woman to that point where her body started to leak that sweet nectar made a man's entry into her body feel like entering heaven itself. He knew that thought was blasphemous. But he couldn't help it. He worked his hand faster, tilting his head back into the pillows and biting his lip to muffle a groan.

Francie had to be sweet, he could tell from looking at her. Her flesh was soft and smooth, her lips tasted like cinnamon and honey and pepper and dark, sweet cherries. Would she lock those silky legs around his waist, enticing him to go harder and deeper? Would she whisper sweet nothings to him in the dark as he worked between her legs, holding him close and kissing him? A grunt rumbled in his chest as his hard length grew even harder, heralding the arrival of his finish. It was picturing himself down low between her thighs, tasting her, his tongue deep within her as he took mouthfuls of her sweet flesh topped off with the sweet cream her body made, over and over and over, that finally brought him over the edge. He strained against his bed and his hand as his seed pumped out into an old shirt. He heard himself mumbling her name as he finished, as though she were really there with him. It took him a few seconds to realize that she wasn't, and he lay quietly, catching his breath and waiting for his heart rate to slow.

Suddenly the room across the hall felt so very far away.

:O:O:O:

The next morning Forrest was up at his usual early hour of dawn, drinking coffee and going over his books again tiredly. They'd made some sales last night but he'd been too eager to go upstairs to record the figures. He did it now, going over the numbers obsessively to reassure himself that they were doing just fine, that the money he had stashed away wouldn't run out for a good, long time.

A couple of hours passed before he even knew it, and he heard light footsteps behind him in the dining area.

"Good morning, Forrest," her sweet voice called quietly. "I am ready now."

_If that were only true,_ Forrest thought, thinking back to his illicit interlude with himself in his bed the previous night, with the woman in front of him the star. He felt his body stirring at both the memory and the sight of her, in that pretty little dress of hers, the pale blue one with the pink roses that matched her eyes and her lips. _God have mercy,_ he thought, brushing past her and holding his breath so he didn't have to smell that sinfully sweet, slightly citrusy smell about her that made his mouth water.

"Let's go then," he said gruffly on his way out the door. He hated that he found himself being so brusque with her. He couldn't help it. He didn't know how to be anything more than perfunctorily polite and keep his sanity at the same time.

He opened the cab door for her, averting his face slightly as she came near. She gathered her skirt up in one hand for delicacy's sake, and he helped her up inside by wrapping his hands around her waist and lifting her up as she hopped. The contact was almost too much for him and he unceremoniously let her go before she was settled in the seat, causing her to drop down with a hard thump. She looked at him strangely and he ignored it. He walked around to his side and climbed in, immediately rolling the window down and lighting up a stogie just to cover her aroma. It made him want to grab her and lean her back and bury his face in her neck and just spend the rest of his living days smelling her.

As he started the truck and began the drive into town, he noticed that his hand involuntarily clenched around the wheel. Extreme frustration like he'd never experienced before in his entire life threatened to consume him; he wanted to hit something, hard, over and over and over. Next to actually being able to find release with Francie – itself a ridiculous notion – physical violence was the outlet he needed. But, he wasn't an unnecessarily violent man, only doing so when he had no other options. He just wished that today, someone would maybe get up the courage to try him. Just for today.

"Starting to get warmer these days," Francie commented, her hands folded around the pocket book in her lap. "Summer's just around the corner."

"Umm," he said, puffing his stogie. "I'd agree."

"It always storms quite a bit in the summertime in Louisiana. Is it that way in Virginia?"

He thought of her dancing in the rain, in a drenched slip clinging to her body, allowing him to see everything underneath, and shifted in his seat. "Here and there," he replied.

"You can have me in the rain."

Forrest choked involuntarily, hot smoke boiling down his throat and he coughed. "What?" he exclaimed.

Francie looked at him as though he'd lost his mind. "There's a rabbit in your lane?" she repeated tentatively, her delicate features furrowed with confusion.

Forrest glanced up and saw that he was coming up on a hare in the middle of the road, oblivious to the noisy Model A roaring toward him. He quickly tapped the brakes, really more for Francie's sake, and the rabbit hopped along off the road.

"Sorry," he muttered. "I thought – I thought I heard you say something else."

Francie nodded slightly, still looking at him as though he'd gone mad. _Maybe I have_, he thought.

They drove the rest of the way in silence, with Forrest fuming silently at himself for his stupidity. He'd thought that bringing himself off last night would help with this unendurable tension between the two of them, at least on his part, but if anything, all it had done was serve to make him even hornier and more aware of how Francie looked and smelled. He felt like a boar in heat enclosed in a pen with a sow he wanted to mount. The analogy and the accompanying mental image it conjured made him snort to himself.

But it was more than just a physical attraction – he had admitted that to himself long ago. Though she could be difficult, there was a sweet lightness about her, even with her sadness, that touched him deep in the bottom of his heart. He wanted to protect her, to make sure she always had everything she needed. He thought back to the chat he'd overheard her having with Jack the day she'd made them Sunday dinner. _I had a fiancé, _she'd said. _I did not have a sweetheart._ She'd said that her fiancé had not been good to her. Forrest didn't know what that meant, but it made him want to be good to her, for her. Always.

"Forrest, look – "

Francie's frightened gasp met his ears at the same moment that he saw it.

The town was on fire.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

As they drove slowly through the town, Forrest could see that it was not all completely on fire. But two notable places were.

Mrs. Everett's sewing shop was burned to the ground, the initial fire having dulled to a few small flames amid a smoldering, charred heap that had once been her pride and joy. In front of her shop, and on the lawn of Miz Judy's store, were two enormous wooden crosses, doused in kerosene and lit on fire. Oily black smoke from the burning crosses plumed up into the sky.

Forrest pulled to a stop in front of Mrs. Everett's shop, staring at it silently. A sudden movement to his right drew his attention, and Francie was thrusting open the door and running straight for the wreckage.

"Goddammit," Forrest muttered under his breath, wrenching open his door and following her. "Francie. Stop, now. Get away from there."

Francie paced on the ground before the flaming ruins of the shop. All that was left of the once tidy little shop was a partial framework. The wooden beams that were left standing were charred black from the fire; there was nothing but piles of ash and burnt debris everywhere. The wind gusted, blowing charred ash into Francie's face, pale and horrified at the sight before her. Meanwhile, the giant wooden cross was burning merrily, a stark contrast to the shambles that had been the shop.

The cross made Forrest nervous; he could see that it had been liberally doused – soaked through, actually – with some kerosene or something equally flammable. The fire that was consuming the wooden fibers threatened to crumble the structure any moment now, which would likely spread the fire or severely injure someone. And the someone he cared about was standing only feet away.

A cracking sound met his ears, and Forrest reached out and grabbed Francie by the waist, hauling her back away from the cross. One of the arms of the cross fell off, falling to the ground where she had been standing in a flaming heap.

Francie was frighteningly silent, her eyes enormous with fear, and on some strange impulse, Forrest silently gathered her body against his, pressing her head to his shoulder as his other hand supported her back. Her body tensed against his, and at first he thought she was going to push him away. Instead, she relaxed into his arms and buried her face against his chest. He started to notice the townspeople for the first time – they all looked terrified and frightened. He wondered how long ago this had happened. He noticed that Sheriff Potts and Deputy Branson were each talking to the townsfolk, clearly trying to piece together what had happened and see if anyone had any information at all.

He became aware that Francie was mumbling something into his chest. He lifted her chin. "What's that, honey?" The term of endearment once again sounded odd to his own ears but flowed out of his mouth like he'd been born to say it.

"Mrs. Everett," she said tremulously, panic edging her voice. "Is she all right? What happened to Mrs. Everett?"

"I don't know," Forrest replied, surprising himself with how gentle his voice had become. "We'll have to look for her. All right? You just calm yourself, now." He looked into her face, and gently ran his thumbs over her cheeks. He streaked black ash over her skin and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. "Here." He glanced in the direction of the general store, then tugged on Francie's hand. "Come on."

There was an identical cross burning in the yard in front of Miz Judy's store. As they got closer, they could see that there was furniture, tables and chairs, strewn across the porch. The front door was wrenched off its hinges and had been splintered into small pieces that were currently littering the yard. Inside the store, it was even worse. Most of the shopkeeper's merchandise had been destroyed in one capacity or another – things were broken and thrown about, the shelves were overturned. The cash register had been dumped on its side and emptied of its contents. Forrest wondered how the inventory for Miz Judy's other business had fared, clenching his jaw.

As for the woman herself, she was nowhere to be seen, but there were smears of blood on the floor. Francie stared at it, pressing the handkerchief to her mouth as color drained from her face. Forrest glared around the destroyed store and pulled Francie away.

It was obvious that the two vandalisms were connected to Francie. And he figured that it was a message from whomever it was that was after her – they knew where she was and what she had done. Not for the first time, he wondered about the severity of her crime; she must have done something quite bad, and something personal, as the retribution and retaliation she was experiencing was personal. He was just mildly surprised that whoever was responsible had the KKK in their back pocket. Franklin County was a small place with considerably more tolerance than other parts of the state or the South in general, but Virginia did have its share of Klan members.

"Forrest," Sheriff Potts said amiably, nodding and walking up to him. "How are things? You experiencin' anything strange out at the station?" He caught sight of Francie then, silent and still, pale and frightened; she was in shock. He tugged the brim of his hat. "Good morning, Miss." He glanced at Forrest. "The little lady all right, there?"

Forrest sighed. "She worked at both places, was close to both women. They all right?"

"Mrs. Everett is, sure," Sheriff Potts said with a nod. "Well, as right as she can be given her business just got burnt down. She wasn't at the shop at the time, thank the Lord. She was at home with her husband. Got a call in the middle of the night sayin' it was burnt down."

"Call from who?" Forrest asked.

"Not sure. Anyway, Miz Judy is laid up in the hospital. She was workin' late at the store last night when some Klansmen rushed in. Tore the place to shit and beat her bloody."

Francie gasped and Forrest's jaw tightened. He had always liked the general store owner; she was rough around the edges in a way he could appreciate in a woman, she had a solid business mind, and she always looked out for him and his brothers any way she could. It was part of the reason why he was always willing to cut her a deal.

"Is she going to be all right?" Francie cried to the Sheriff. He nodded.

"That's what the Doc says," he said simply. "You could probably go and visit her, if you like. She can't really talk, though. Had to have her jaw wired shut."

Forrest felt Francie's hands clutch his arm, and in another inexplicable gesture of reassurance, he absently patted her hand. "Thanks, Sheriff. We'll head on over and see her in a bit, I 'spect." He spotted Mrs. Everett with her husband wandering in front of what remained of her shop, looking dazed. He led Francie over to them.

"Mrs. Everett," he said calmly.

"Forrest, Francie," she said heavily. She took Francie in her arms. "Oh, my dear. Please don't be sad for me."

"I'm terribly sad," Francie said, taking the woman's hand in hers. "I just cannot accept that someone would do this to you." The words rang hollowly to Forrest's ears; he knew that Francie was well aware that Mrs. Everett had been targeted only because of her.

"Sheriff Potts said you got a telephone call last night," Forrest said. "'Bout your shop. You know who it was?"

Mrs. Everett shook her head. "I fear I don't," she said. "He was rather intimidating, even over the telephone, however. He said that the Klan knew about my activities and who I was fraternizing with and that they didn't like it. They said to go down to my shop and I could see for myself how much they didn't like it." She shook her head, bewildered, gesturing up what remained of the burning cross. Her husband and several men were attempting to extinguish the fire, throwing pails of water on it. "How does this make sense? I haven't done anything. I don't understand what they were referring to."

Francie made a little squeaking noise and covered it up with a cough. Perhaps most of the townspeople were used to seeing Francie every day and hadn't picked up exactly on her physical changes; but her skin was darker, making her features more prominently non-Caucasian than ever before. It wasn't completely obvious what her background was, but it was clear that it was something more than simply Western European.

"My dear, I'm sorry that this means you're out of a job for a while," Mrs. Everett added regretfully. "I don't know what Gregory and I will do now."

"I'm not concerned about the job," Francie said thickly. "I am just sorry you've lost the shop. I'm so happy you're all right, though."

"Thanks, dear," Mrs. Everett said sadly.

"You need anything, you know where to find me," Forrest said gruffly, and he meant it. They took their leave from Mrs. Everett and her husband and headed back to his truck. Francie dabbed at her eyes with his hanky before letting Forrest help her back up into the cab. He sat silently next to her before starting the engine. The implications of what was happening were undeniable and frightening; he was certainly sorry for both shopkeepers, especially Miz Judy who had actually suffered violence at the hands of someone, but his main concern was Francie. He hoped she understood how serious things had just gotten, and how much danger they were actually in now.

"All of this happened because of me," she said, surprising him with the echo of his own thoughts. "It's clear. It's got to be the detective. And – " She clamped her mouth shut, almost as if she didn't want to say anything else.

For a moment, Forrest considered breaking his promise not to ask her anything about her past and demand that she tell him what happened and who was coming. He certainly wasn't about to abandon her now that things were getting ugly but he needed to know what he was up against, who to look for. He was getting tired of being left in the dark. He bit the inside of his lip so hard he tasted blood.

"Let's go see your other employer," he said tightly, starting the engine finally and heading off in the direction of the hospital.

"I spoke with her just yesterday," Francie said quietly. "I told her I could no longer work for her in the juke."

"What'd she say?" Forrest asked.

"Not much. She said she understood and told me to not be a stranger."

Forrest nodded and lapsed into silence. His mind whirled as he drove, and he expected that Francie's was too. He decided that he was going to have to try to get her to talk to him, no matter how much he hated having to bring it up and how much she resisted being forthcoming.

At the hospital, the sight of Miz Judy laid up in bed with her jaw wired shut was almost too much, even for Forrest. The lady just didn't deserve to have anything like that happen to her. Fury rose in him as he looked down at her. _Who in the goddamn hell beats up an old woman?_ he wondered angrily.

However, though Miz Judy couldn't talk, she was still able to communicate. Her eyes snapped fire when she saw her two newest visitors, and she gestured impatiently first for a nurse, and then for the nurse to bring a pad of paper and a pencil. She stretched a hand out to Francie and seemed to point warningly at Forrest, imploring him to stay put. When the nurse returned with her requested items, Miz Judy began scrawling a note, which took a long time because she had a lot to write and her hand shook, then finally handed it to Francie. Forrest leaned over her shoulder so he could read it too.

"You are in danger," Miz Judy had written. "This is the KKK's doing. They said they were told by a 'friend' that I had a colored gal working for me who was causing lots of problems for friends of the friend. They beat me and told me to tell you that they know who you are, and that 'the Lattimores' are coming for you, whoever they are."

Francie swallowed hard, reading the note. "Miz Judy, I'm so sorry – I should have told you –" She shook her head quickly. "I've caused you trouble because I'm –"

Miz Judy impatiently gestured for her notepad again. She began to scrawl another note. When she was through, she handed the pad over.

"Child, do you think I'm blind?" the note read. "I've known about you since the first day you walked into my shop asking about drawers. But I never mentioned it because I didn't want to bring you any trouble. Most people around here don't care, but outside this town people do. Especially when someone tries to pass themselves off as part of 'decent' society. You need to be careful. I'll be fine."

The old woman's eyes shifted to Forrest and narrowed. She glanced at Francie and then back at him. _Take care of her_, she seemed to be saying. Forrest nodded once.

"No time to go for the shotguns, huh?" he asked her gently, a twinkle in his eyes. Miz Judy glared, then winked, shaking her head. She took her pad back and scrawled another message, much faster this time. She held up the pad when she was done.

"Too many of those sons of bitches," she wrote. "Next time."

Forrest appreciated her spirit. He tugged the brim of his hat. "If you don't mind too much now, ma'am, I best get Francie back to the station. It ain't safe for her around out here just now, in light of everything."

On the drive home, Francie stared moodily out the window, her hand at her lips. Forrest wanted to talk to her, to find out what was on her mind, to see if she was all right, but he said nothing. They drove back in silence. He wondered how he would go about keeping things under control. The station was remote enough to not be easily found, but then again, plenty of people wanted liquor and knew just where to find the best stuff. He wanted to know who these Lattimore people were. He wondered if Francie would talk now that more information was being shared in front of him. He glanced at her again out of the corner of his eye; she looked absolutely miserable.

When they arrived back at the station, he walked her inside. He didn't have any runs to make that day except to go to the still with Howard to check on the progress of the batch of moonshine they were working on. There was apple brandy that needed to be jarred, but that wasn't urgent. He would make sure that someone was at the station at all times, even if it was just Jack. His baby brother might be a little foolish at times, but he was not short on bravery and could be quite the tough little asshole, when he chose to be.

"Me and Howard, we, umm, have to go out to the still today," he said quietly to Francie as they stood in the dining room. The lunch rush was underway, but there were currently only a handful of men in the room. "Won't be gone long. Why don't you go on upstairs and get some rest. You look dog tired."

Francie met his gaze dully, her crystal blue eyes going through him. But she nodded absently, and turned to go upstairs. He reached out impulsively and caught her by the arm. He had no idea why he did that or what else he wanted to say to her. She turned slowly to look into his face again. They held gazes for a beat as Forrest struggled to come up with something, still unsure what had made him grab her. Finally, she spoke.

"Forrest, I'll be fine," she said quietly, trying to sound reassuring but failing. "You're right, I do need some rest. Please, don't worry about me. You have things to look after." Just then, a loud clap of thunder broke outside, causing some of the men in the place to shout and hoot in excitement accordingly. "It will rain soon. You had better get out to the stills and back before you get soaked." She gently extracted her arm from his grasp, then patted his hand.

He watched as she walked across the room to the stairs, then disappeared up them. He didn't like the shell-shocked way she was acting; he'd seen it before, the night he took her from the boarding house. It had preceded her nightmares.

But, she was right; it was about to rain, and he and Howard really did have to get out to the stills. There was nothing more to be done. He said a few words to Jack, just enough to explain that she wasn't feeling well and to tell him to keep an eye on her. He'd give both Jack and Howard the real story later, but for now, there wasn't time.

He only prayed that nothing would happen while he was gone.

:O:O:O:

It was early evening and pouring when he and Howard returned. It had meant to be a quick trip, but the rain had come upon them anyway, delaying their work. During that time, Forrest had relented and told Howard about what was going on. He had never told them what he had discovered about Francie's origins, but his brothers were smart enough to note the change in her. Howard had shaken his head at the story.

"I hate to say I told you so, little brother, but I told you before that you didn't know what you was gettin' yourself into," he'd said. "She's in deep trouble with somebody and now they know where to find her. We're in for it if we let her stay here." He'd caught sight of the look Forrest was giving him and quickly changed his tune. "I mean, 'course we gonna let her keep stayin' on at the station. Don't want nothin' bad to happen to the poor gal. I'm just sayin', we really gonna need to be payin' attention to who comes and goes. Ain't no tellin' how long it's gonna take for this to blow over."

As they pulled up to the station, Jack rushed outside to meet them, despite the fact that it was pouring. Forrest ushered him back onto the porch as he and Howard jogged toward it, seeking to get out of the downpour as quickly as possible.

"Forrest, it's bad," Jack said, panicked.

"What are you sayin'?" Forrest demanded. "Someone show up? What happened?"

Jack shook his head quickly. "Naw. I mean she's been screaming in her sleep all afternoon – I don't wanna go in there and wake her up 'cause it ain't proper but, man, she's been scaring the bejesus out of me and the couple customers we've had."

"I'll go check on her," Forrest said gruffly. "Howard, tell Jack what I done told you. I don't feel like rehashin' it again just now."

He pushed into the station and made his way up the stairs, shucking his soaked hat and pushing his sleeves up to the elbows. He could already hear faint whimpering coming from her room. He didn't bother knocking and just pushed the door open, stepped inside, and shut it behind him.

She had the window open, allowing the cool breeze from the rain to blow into the room. She still wore her dress, and it was now frightfully wrinkled. She had it unbuttoned to the waist, revealing her lace slip underneath, and she had removed her silk stockings and thrown them at the foot of the bed. Now, she was lying on her back, her head facing the window. Her eyes were shut in her sleep, but her brow was furrowed and she had clearly been crying. The skirt of her dress was hiked up to her thighs and her hair had been freed of its messy knot, surrounding her face in even messier tangles. He walked up to the bed, sitting down on the mattress as he had just two nights ago, watching her. She was making agitated, anguished noises in the back of her throat, whimpers and moans, but no words were coming out. Trails of thick tears oozed out of the corners of her eyes.

"Francie," he murmured, leaning down close to her face. "Francie. Wake up."

Her eyes opened slightly, but they weren't seeing him; he knew she was still dreaming, which explained why she suddenly began to flail at him with her fists, wheezing in alarm. He grabbed her wrists to stop the blows and pressed them into the mattress.

"Francie, stop this," he said louder. "Wake up, now. You're dreamin'. It's me, Forrest. Wake up."

And then she was gasping, and in his arms, hers wrapped tightly around his neck as her lungs heaved for air. He held her to his body, feeling her trembling uncontrollably.

"Hush, now," he said awkwardly into her hair, trying to ignore the scent that clung to it. "You're safe. C'mon now, darlin'. Hush."

She didn't say a word, but just held onto him, shaking and breathing hard and burying her face in his neck. He found one of his hands reaching up to stroke her curls while the other one rubbed her back gently. She felt so good in his arms, and she smelled like heaven. He didn't want to let her go.

But he did. When she had caught her breath a little more, he released her and stood up. He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at the floor.

"You hungry?" he asked quietly. "You need anything?" She hesitated, looking up at him. Her extended silence caused him to look at her. "What is it?" he asked. "You can have whatever you like."

"I wonder –" she began hoarsely, then cleared her throat, and brushed tears from her eyes. "I wonder if I might have a bit of brandy. To – to calm my nerves."

He looked at her in surprise; that request, he wasn't prepared for. "Umm," he began. "Well. Why, sure. If that's what you want."

"Yes, please," she said faintly. "The other stuff you make – I cannot drink that. I cannot even stand to smell it." She gave him a tiny smile. "But the apple brandy. I always thought it smelled rather nice."

"You ever try it?" he asked. She shook her head. "Umm. Well, yes. You can have some. Stay – stay right here."

He went back down the stairs and into the open dining area. Howard was behind the bar now, and Forrest leaned over it toward him.

"Gimme a jar of apple," he said quietly.

Howard's eyebrows shot up. "Brother Forrest," he said in a mockingly admonishing tone. "I thought you only made the stuff, not drunk it."

Forrest clenched his jaw and stared at his brother; he was in no mood for Howard's bullshit. "It ain't for me," he said evenly, thinking about punching Howard square in his nose. It could have served for the violent outlet he was hoping for earlier that morning. "She needs somethin' to calm down."

"Hmm." Howard reached under the bar and pulled out a squat jar filled with apple brandy. "I can imagine. We're used to people gunnin' for us all the time, but not some poor woman." He handed over the jar without further comment, rapping the surface of the bar with his knuckles and nodding at his younger brother, before moving down a few steps to point at Jack.

"Gettin' plumb tired of you doin' nothin' but sittin' up and playin' cards," Howard exclaimed. "You don't even know how to play proper, which is why you're costin' us money in the long run. Now get off your lazy ass and do some work. Earn back some of that money you lost to Lefty and Jimbo, for fuck's sake."

"Aw, fuck you, Howard," Jack grumbled, throwing his hand down on the table.

Forrest couldn't even really find it within himself to care what his baby brother was doing; he merely shook his head and took to the stairs once more. When he got back to Francie's room, she was sitting on the window seat, looking out across the land as more heavy dark clouds rolled in. In the far off distance, Forrest caught a glimpse of a flash of lightning.

"'Nother storm brewin', looks like," he said quietly. He held up the jar and a glass. "How much you want?"

Francie eyed the items in his hands, then turned away. "Why don't you leave me the whole thing."

He balked. "This _entire_ jar? All due respect, Francie, but seein' as how you don't drink, drinkin' this whole thing'll have you drunker'n Cooter Brown. Not to mention sick as a dog."

The words left his mouth before he could think of them as Francie whipped her head around to stare up at him. For a moment he thought she might dress him down for his thoughtlessness but instead a little mirthless smile tugged at her mouth and she turned her head back to the window.

"Perhaps old Cooter always had the right idea. Leave the jar, please, Forrest."

It was a dismissal. Forrest set the jar and the glass down on the nightstand and turned for the door. He glanced back at her once more, studying her for a moment as she leaned her head against the window, the gusting winds blowing her hair gently around her face and shoulders, and then left her room.

**A/N: For those who don't know the reference, "Cooter Brown" was supposedly a half-Black, half-Cherokee man from Louisiana who was, in a nutshell, known for his penchant for near-constant inebriation. There are many, many twists on the legend of Cooter Brown, but this is the one I chose to reference.**


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N. Hi. Enjoy this. Read and review and stuff. I likes it. xo**

**Chapter 19**

Francie was drunk.

It hadn't taken much; so far, out of what she estimated to be a twelve-ounce jar of apple brandy, she had consumed approximately three to four ounces over the course of a couple of hours. But with her inexperience at drinking combined with an empty stomach, it hadn't taken long for her to feel the effects.

She had spent the evening locked in her room, watching patrons dash in and out of the station as the downpour continued outside. It was a full thunderstorm, thunder that boomed and roared and shook the building to its foundation, lightning that flashed brilliantly in the sky. In the distance, she had seen lightning strike a tree; she knew that it had happened because she saw smoke sizzling upward, even in the rain.

She wished she would get struck by lightning or that the storm would drown her or swallow her whole. The grief and torment she felt at the knowledge that her actions had caused people dear to her to be hurt was too much for her to handle on her own. _This is no time for prayer,_ she thought, blasphemously drunk. _This is the time for liquor._

She decided that she would just leave the station, leave Franklin County altogether. She had been selfish long enough; she had brought down pain and misery on perfect strangers for no other reason than because she was a horrible person. Everyone would be better off without her; there was no reason to try any longer. She would spend one more night here, only because now she was too inebriated to function, and she would enjoy this last storm, and then she would leave tomorrow, go back to Louisiana, and face the music. The Lattimores, the detective, the KKK – they could all have her. They could tear her to pieces if they liked and eat the parts. No matter – she was done.

And if this was to be her last night to live, she wanted to live it intoxicated. She grabbed for the jar, almost dropping it, and giggling drunkenly as liquid sloshed over the sides. She watched some of it splatter to the wood floors and for a moment, considered lapping it up so as not to let it go to waste.

"Ain't no dog," she slurred to herself, bringing the jar to her lips. "N'matter what they say. Ain't no dog." She marveled at how common and uneducated she sounded, then damned propriety and education. It hadn't particularly gotten her anywhere in life.

It was growing later and later, the sky darkening even as the deluge continued. It was almost as if Mother Nature herself had taken on Francie's pain and was unleashing it on the world, her screams and her tears becoming the thunder and the rain. She stared out of the window dully, her mind blank, and just _felt_. She felt overwhelming frustration, fear, agony, torment. It threatened to claw at her heart and her throat, to rip her to shreds. It became too much, too unbearable, that she had to do something to break out of it. Even for just a moment.

Her head swayed as she cast about the room, and then she saw the untouched glass Forrest had brought her with the jar. She dragged it off the nightstand and hefted it in her hand, then threw it hard across the room, watching and listening as it shattered into a million pieces. She was still perched on her bed, staring at it dully, when Forrest came charging into her room a moment later.

"What in the hell was that noise?" he demanded. His face changed when Francie grinned drunkenly at him and pointed a shaking hand across the room.

"The glass," she informed him, swaying a little. "I accidentally threw it 'cross the room."

"Fuck, Francie!" Forrest exclaimed, grabbing the lamp next to her bed and bringing it over. "There's shards of fucking glass everywhere. Why would you do that?" He left the room without waiting for an answer and was back again in a moment with a broom and a dustpan. He set about to sweeping up the mess very quickly, mumbling darkly to himself under his breath as he went. When all of the shards were swept into the pan, he turned and glowered at her. She looked back at him impassively, and took another drink from the jar.

He clenched his jaw and stalked out of the room, and she heard a tapping noise that meant he was emptying the dustpan into the wastebasket. A moment later he was back in her room, and before she quite knew what was happening, she was flat on her back with his hand pressing against her collarbones and the jar was wrenched from her grasp.

"What the hell are you doing!" she slurred. "Give me back my goddamn drink, you bastard."

"That's quite a mouthful for a _lady _like you," Forrest said sarcastically, looking down at her where she squirmed beneath his hand. "And no. You've had plenty. Go to bed."

"I'm _in_ the fucking bed," she snapped back, reaching up to try to claw his face but he grabbed her wrists easily in one hand and slammed them over to her other side.

"Watch your goddamn mouth," he said angrily. "And you stay in this here bed, or so help me, I will tie you to the fuckin' posts!"

"You give me m'drink back and I will stay right here," Francie slurred, blinking up at him because he'd suddenly become blurry. "You gave me it, you don't have the right to take it from me!" His grip on her wrists became painful and she growled, thrashing. "You take your fucking hands off me, now!" She jerked uselessly; his grip was like a vise. "You take 'em off," she panted, staring at him with wide eyes. "You take 'em off or I'll kill you!"

Forrest glared at her. "Oh, kill me, will you?" He pressed her harder into the bed.

"I'll kill you," she whispered, her throat choking. Suddenly she began to sob brokenly. "I killed a man before," she managed through her drunken tears. "I killed him 'cause he hurt me. I'll do it again, I will! If you keep hurting me, I'll kill you like I killed Thomas – I killed him, I killed him!"

Then she remembered that she _hadn't_ killed him, and that he was coming for her now, and she sobbed harder. She had never hated herself more than she did in that moment – not when she was growing up, hating her curly black hair when all the other girls had beautiful straight golden locks. Not when she was forced to swelter and sweat under wrappings in the hot Louisiana sun on the pretense of not becoming freckled but really so that she could preserve her pale skin. Not when she looked in the mirror and didn't understand her fat lips or her wide nose or her oddly shaped cheekbones, where other girls' faces were delicate, small, symmetrical.

No, she hated herself now most of all because she was weak, pathetic. Because she was frightened out of her mind, because she didn't want to die. Because she would rather give up than fight.

"Forrest, please," she said with surprising sobriety and control even though she was still crying. "Just leave me."

"Not when you're in this state," he replied calmly. "Why are you so mad at me, anyway?"

"I'm not," she said, fresh tears leaking out of her eyes as her head spun. She squeezed her eyes shut as nausea threatened her. "I'm not."

"You need to sleep this off," Forrest said, his voice a little more gentle now. He released his grip on her wrists but hesitated, as if to see if she would make any sudden movements. She remained where she was, suddenly aware that her head was pounding horribly, the room was _still_ spinning behind her closed eyes, and her stomach was sloshing. "And you need something to eat. You ain't eaten all day."

"Please, no," she whimpered, her stomach lurching.

"Just some crackers, something plain. Hang on."

She had no idea how long he was gone as she allowed herself to meld into the dizzy vortex spinning through her mind. At some point, he returned, leaning over her. He had a plate in his hands and on the plate was a little stack of saltine crackers.

"Make you feel better," he said. "Promise. I know."

She tried to open her eyes, but the spinning was too much. She shook her head. "I'll eat them later," she replied, closing her eyes again. Forrest sighed, and then Francie felt the mattress shift as he leaned over her to place the dish on her nightstand. The sudden movement had her rolling slightly and she thought she truly might vomit.

"I'll let you be," he murmured. "Go to sleep."

Francie passed out before he even left the room, the dizziness and the alcoholic stupor covering her like a thick, stifling blanket.

She woke again sometime later. It was still raining, but it was late in the night. Lightning lit up her room in bursts as she struggled to a sitting position.

The nausea had subsided for the most part, but she still felt a little queasy. Her head pounded most unpleasantly. She reached for the little dish on her nightstand and devoured the crackers that Forrest had brought her, hunger somehow gnawing at her gut through the queasiness. The crackers felt nice once on her stomach, but now her mouth was even drier, and her throat burned with thirst. She rubbed the heels of her hands tiredly into her eyes and realized she was still in her dress from before. She rose unsteadily to pull it off and reached in her suitcase, pulling out a freshly laundered nightie. She pulled it on, feeling the thin, diaphanous material slide over her body like an old friend. It was her favorite thing to sleep in because it was so airy and light, if it was rather short – it came halfway down her thighs. Thomas had always told her it was indecent, especially because her bottom was high and round and made it look even shorter in the back. "You shouldn't draw attention to that thing," he would say, gesturing toward her backside. "It's much too round and prominent for decency's sake."

She took a few tentative, experimental steps. She was slightly dizzy still, but it wasn't so bad she couldn't walk without falling over. Her stomach growled with hunger and her mouth begged for water. She moved to the door and pulled it open, peeking out into the upstairs hallway. Forrest's door was slightly ajar, but as she listened carefully, she heard his deep, heavy, even breathing, signaling that he was deeply asleep. She moved to the staircase, sticking close to the wall and moving on the balls of her feet. She had become somewhat practiced at moving silently down the stairs when she needed to, and the wooden boards didn't make a sound. She cast about for a lamp to light, then thought better of it; she didn't want to draw any attention or potentially risk waking Forrest as he slumbered. She owed the man a peaceful night of rest, if nothing else.

Fortunately, the near constant flashes of lightning provided enough light to move by in the kitchen, and she stole to the cupboard to find the box of crackers once more. She pulled out another handful and set about pulling down a glass from the cupboard, filling it with water at the sink. It took a while for the water to run clear but when it did, she drained the icy, refreshing water, and her mouth and throat thanked her for it.

She ate a few more crackers at the sink, watching the storm rage outside. She tilted her head to finish off the last of her water, and it poured out too fast, trickling down the sides of her mouth, down her throat and then her chest. The little cold trail that it left on her skin, feeling hot from the influx of alcohol, made her suddenly yearn to be outdoors. She stared outside, setting her glass on the bar slowly as she used the back of her hand to wipe the water off her skin.

In a flash, she was at the door and then outside.

:O:O:O:

Forrest stirred in his bed, sitting up suddenly. _Goddammit,_ he thought. He hadn't meant to sleep so long. He'd meant to lie down for a bit, but he had planned to be alert, in case Francie grew ill from the alcohol.

He listened hard, but he couldn't hear any movement coming from her room. That didn't necessarily mean it was a good thing, he reasoned. He pushed off of his bed and stretched his arms. He moved to his window to open it a little and let some fresh air in. It was unendurably stuffy. He unbuttoned his cotton shirt and tossed it to the floor, left in his snug white undershirt and his trousers. He felt a little better now.

He moved to his door and pulled it silently open the rest of the way, then crossed the hall quietly to her room. He turned the knob, then realized it wasn't closed all the way anymore. She must have gotten up at some point. He pushed the door in the rest of the way, just as a bright flash of lightning burst outside. For a moment, the room was illuminated, and he saw that her bed was empty, the quilt and sheets mussed. His fell to the foot of the bed, and he saw her dress slung over the side.

He knew she'd gone outside into the rain again. He shook his head; he hoped that meant she was over the worst of her drunkenness. Hell, hopefully the cold rain would help her snap out of it. She had always said that the rain helped her to think, to come to terms with things, and that she felt that it cleansed her. He hoped she would gain at least a little peace from her present situation. She had scared him earlier when she'd begun sobbing out some story about having killed someone; someone who had hurt her. That had to be what she was running from – she'd committed murder in self-defense.

He shuffled downstairs, thinking hard. He now wanted the whole story from her – not to pass judgment on her or make her feel worse, but to see exactly what her circumstances were, and how to best deal with them. She'd once told him that she had planned to go to New York; he could buy her a train ticket and send her on her way, as soon as tomorrow, to avoid the people on her trail. He was certain he and his brothers could handle anything, but Francie, he wanted out of there.

The thought made him sad. He realized he didn't want her to leave. He had no reason to go to New York anytime soon, and besides – he was a country man. He could never leave the beauty of nature, the still twilights, the beautiful mountains and forests of his home for the busyness of city life. It would never suit him.

He lit a lamp and then moved to fetch a towel from the cabinet, knowing she would need it whenever she came back in. He worried for a brief moment; it really wasn't safe for her to be out there when there were obviously people after her. He thought that he should go out and find her rather than waiting for her to come back.

He spotted a glass on the bar and picked it up. Her lip print was still on the lip of the glass. He slowly filled it again halfway with water, and then drank, positioning his own lips to line up with where hers had been. When he was through, he set the glass in the sink and picked up the lamp, moving to the door. As an afterthought, he fetched a second towel and laid it next to hers. If he was going out after her in this downpour, he'd need one himself.

He pushed open the front door to the station, the wind almost taking his breath away as he stepped on the porch. The rain was sluicing down almost sideways because the wind was blowing hard. He walked along the length of the porch until he reached the side of the station, then peeked around. He saw her small figure sitting atop the storage shed where he kept the product. Her back was to him and her wet hair flowed down as she tilted her head back. At least she was safe. _Crazy, but safe_, Forrest thought wryly. However, it still wasn't smart for her to be out here, especially not in the dead of the night.

He sighed, not really wanting to step off the porch, but he did so anyway, holding himself rigidly as the rain sheeted down him. His undershirt and trousers instantly became soaked and water poured down his face, getting into his eyes and invading his mouth. _How in the hell does she stand it?_ he wondered grumpily.

He tried calling her name as he neared, but it was lost to the explosion of thunder and the howling of the wind. He moved up to the side of the shed and reached up, touching a bare arm or leg. As he expected, she shrieked with surprise, wrenching away, then sighing in relief at the sight of him.

"Get down from there," he shouted over the noise of the storm. "Ain't safe for you to be out here!"

She looked down at him, then raked a hand through her hair to push it out of her face. She disappeared over the opposite side of the little shed, and then a minute later, reappeared around the side. Forrest grabbed her arm, barely looking at her, and began jogging back toward the station. His vision was a blur from the rain in his eyes, but he managed to find his way back. He hurried up the steps, pulling her along, and wrenched open the door. He scooped up the lamp as she scurried in before him, and followed her inside. He set the lamp on the sideboard and then locked the door.

Where the station had once felt stuffy and overly warm, it now felt pleasant after the ice bath he had just taken. He grabbed the lamp and moved into the dining area, setting it on the table next to the towels he'd laid out.

"Come dry off," he called over his shoulder, reaching for a towel and wondering how improper it would be if he just shucked his sodden pants right now. He didn't hear her make any attempt to move, he noticed as he buried his face in the towel to clear his eyes. He glanced over his shoulder briefly to tell her again, and did a double-take, the words dying in his mouth.

She stood a few feet away, watching him, her pale blue eyes almost appearing white in the glow of the lamp. They seemed clear of the alcoholic stupor she'd been in before, even if there were dark circles under them. Her curly hair was smoothed back away from her face, leaking moisture, rain drops sliding down her cheeks, her nose. Her lips.

His eyes slid lower and he swallowed hard. He quickly averted his gaze but the image was seared into his mind. She was wearing some short, sheer negligee, the rain making it cling to her body. It was also completely see through, and as he throbbed to life below the waist, he shut his eyes, trying to rid his mind of the image. But he couldn't; he never would.

Her nipples, dark pink and prominent from the cold, pressed out against the material, standing tall on a pair of lusciously rounded breasts. Her little body dipped in at the waist before curving out again at her hips. The nightie stopped at her upper thighs, and the thing that haunted him most was the dark patch at the apex of her thighs, a little dark triangle under the clinging, wet chiffon material of the flimsy garment.

He swore silently to himself, still looking away from her. He hoped she couldn't see, but he was achingly hard inside his trousers now. His fingers clenched around the towel as though he wanted to rip it to shreds. He thought about doing it, if for no other reason than to occupy his hands so he wouldn't reach for her.

She started to move slowly toward him, water streaming down her limbs and leaving little puddles on the wooden floorboards as she walked across the floor to the table. Forrest clenched his jaw and backed up a step as her scent invaded his nostrils. Even being drenched in the rain hadn't masked it; if anything, it was intensified. He saw her pull the towel off the edge of the table and then he couldn't help it, he had to look. If he was going to send her away, and she was going to leave his life forever, and he'd never get to taste or touch her again, he had to have this final look, however improper it might be. His mouth moistened as she turned slightly away, mopping off her arms and legs. He stared at her backside, at how round and smooth it was, and his mouth grew wetter, the ache in his pants stronger.

She began to towel off her hair, and the coarse strands fluffed out a bit when the excess moisture left them. She wasn't looking at Forrest, but she turned slightly again so that he had a view of the front of her body, of those pinks rosebuds and that dark triangle between her legs. Abruptly he moved around the table, giving her his back as he waited for her to finish and they could go back upstairs, to their respective rooms, and go to bed.

He felt her drop her towel on the table and move hesitantly to his side. She remained there for a moment, and he stared at the floor, clenching his jaw so hard it hurt. Likewise, his fingers gripped the back of the chair he leaned against hard enough to splinter the wood slightly. His eyes shifted to her bare feet, then moved to her ankles and then up her legs to her smooth golden thighs, just barely covered with that negligee that had only just begun to dry. He couldn't let his gaze travel up any further; he just couldn't.

When she started to pass him, her hair brushed his shoulder and he inhaled a deep breath, her scent leaking into the pores of his skin, and he knew he was a goner. It was the only reason he had for reaching out to clasp her wrist, his thumb swiping over it gently.

They both froze. For a moment Forrest cursed himself and prepared to release her but she turned then, staring up into his face, her eyes wide and full of need. And it was need, he was sure of it now, _sure of it_, and he slowly tugged on her wrist, one, two gentle but insistent tugs.

She was against him before he knew it, her arms going around his neck shakily as his own arms moved with a mind of their own, wrapping all the way around her and yanking her into his chest. Even tight against him so he could feel her soft breasts pressed against his own hard chest still wasn't close enough and he scrabbled at her with desperate need.

He could hear his own ragged breathing and hers as one of his hands snaked under her hair to grip it tightly and the fingers of his other dug into her waist to keep her tight against him. He brought her head toward his and their foreheads met for just a moment as they each struggled for breath. He tilted his head, unable to live one more second without tasting her mouth, really tasting it this time. She was eager now, her mouth opening quickly under his as she darted in to claim his lips. They strained against each other, each trying hard to take the other's lips and mouth as deeply as possible and he tasted her tongue for the first time as it pushed and pulled with his. He sucked at her lips and her tongue eagerly, his mind spinning. All he could think of was that she was finally, finally against him, in his arms, where she belonged, and he was tasting her, and she was sweeter than the first time.

His hands slipped down her back to grip her backside before sliding lower down her thighs and then she was up in the air, her legs wrapping around his waist, her hips grinding unconsciously against his hardness. He sat her down on the table for a moment, unable to do anything but feast on her mouth, feast until there was nothing left to taste. Her legs were locked around him and her hips were still moving; he thrust back with his own hips and she gasped sharply into his mouth, and the sound made his fiery need shoot through the roof.

"Take me, Forrest!" she begged urgently, her voice cracking. "Please, dear God – now!"

The words were like molten lava shooting through his veins and he considered taking her on the table, right where they were, because he needed her and she needed him immediately. Instead, he summoned all of his willpower and scooped her back up. Without a word he carried her upstairs and into her room, using his foot to slam the door closed. Her room was cool from the still-raging storm outside and he knew he'd need to feel the cool air again soon. He tossed her onto her bed and stared down at her as he yanked his undershirt off and reached for his pants.

Francie lay back on her elbows, writhing below him, whimpering with need as he rid his body of his soaked pants as quickly as possible. His boxer shorts followed and then he was climbing over her, pushing her all the way back, pulling her legs around him and yanking down the straps of her negligee, pulling the garment down to her waist. He dipped his head and greedily pulled a nipple into his mouth as he rocked against her core, feeling her utterly slick with the thick, sweet moisture that only her body could make. The side of his length rubbed against it and she cried out even louder, gripping his head as he devoured the soft flesh of her breasts.

"Please, Forrest, now," she panted, and he moved his lips to her sternum, feeling the steady hard pulse of her heart against her ribs. He lifted his head back up and took her lips again, feeling like if he had them every day it wouldn't be enough. He plunged his tongue into her mouth and reached down to touch her sex, yanking his mouth from hers to curse into her neck at how wet and tight she felt. He was so aroused he felt moisture dripping from his own tip, so he quickly took himself in hand and pushed against her, coating the tip of his manhood with her silky slickness, rubbing it up and down her entrance until she whined.

"Please, Forrest," she practically sobbed. "_Please. Please."_

He lined up and pushed in, unable to hold in any utterances when her insides gripped him like a vise. "Fuck, Francie, goddammit," he grunted into her flesh. There was no amount of liquor in the world that could have made him feel as drunk as he did now; her scent, her taste, her rain-soft skin, and how she felt made his head spin violently.

He tried to control the movement of his hips but failed miserably. He grabbed one of her thighs and held it open, maneuvering the other one around his ribs, and he plunged in and out of her steadily, hard and deep, her wetness coating him from base to tip and her walls shuddering and gripping him like a soft, ridged fist. It was so good, she felt so good – he hadn't felt this in a long time. He wasn't sure he'd _ever _felt anything as good as Francie felt around him now. She was keening out wordlessly into his shoulder and he pressed his temple to hers, latching onto her neck with his lips and tongue.

He felt his groin start to tighten up and he knew that he didn't have much longer but he wanted her to get everything from this interlude that she could; he wanted to give her everything. A sudden memory of his fantasy from the night before flashed through his mind and he was suddenly halting his movements, withdrawing from her tight, wet warmth.

"Forrest," Francie whispered breathlessly. "What are you –" The rest of her sentence was lost in a wail of pleasure when he dipped his head between her thighs and lapped up her flesh. _Oh, God._ She was sweeter than he could have ever imagined, sweet with a little bit of a salty taste from his own contribution. He slid the tip of his tongue up and down her center before he lapped deep into her folds. Her hips bucked upward from the sensation but he grabbed them, holding them firmly in place as he consumed her flesh and her nectar. She was better than any fruit he'd ever tasted, and he buried his tongue inside her, sucking at her sex and finding the hard little pearl at the top of her core that was growing harder and larger under his tongue. He stroked her thighs, up around his head, and became aware of her noises of pleasure, her whimpers and moans and slipped his tongue back deep into her. He took as much of her as he could manage into his mouth and onto his tongue and then, she was crying out, shuddering, gasping his name over and over and pressing against the back of his head, holding his tongue where it was against her and grinding herself against his mouth as she reached her peak.

He pulled his face away and moved back up her body. She hadn't caught her breath yet before he was plunging his tongue back into her mouth, and a moment later he had thrust back inside her, harder than ever. He swallowed her screams as she clung to him, digging her nails into his back and his rear end. He slung her legs up over his shoulders and pounded into her desperately, unable to believe he was experiencing the level of pleasure that he was and wanting to beat it to the finish in case this was all just a cruel, sweet dream. Then she was coming apart around him again, her body shaking and clamping down on his length. The sensation was unexpected and made him wheeze in surprise. He felt her sex producing even more moisture and he longed to taste it but he couldn't stop now; she was too tight, and the way she was rippling around him was getting him closer and closer to falling off the edge. She was moaning loudly and begging for him to fill her, and then he was, pleasure slamming into him like he'd never known before in his entire life, and he was throbbing out his hot seed deep into her as he grunted her name into her neck, pressing her into the mattress.

He leaned against her, panting, feeling her wetly kiss and suckle his neck as her fingertips stroked his back. He nuzzled her throat, inhaling her scent and enjoying the incredibly relaxing feeling of her fingers on his skin as cool wind gusted into the room. He felt himself twitching inside her, and she was still warm and tight and wet. He didn't want to leave, and he didn't want her to go anywhere from him, ever.

Her fingers eventually slowed and her breathing deepened, and as she fell into repose, Forrest had one thought, that maybe he had gone and done the impossible – fallen in love with this woman – before he leapt off the cliff of sweet sleep after her.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: Did I ever tell you that my favorite thing is lemon marshmallow fluff?**

**Chapter 20**

He woke to the feeling of soft kisses being pressed to his face, the scar along his neck, and over his chest, littered with scars from the bullet wounds he'd received last year. The soft lips trailed down to his stomach and back up, settling against the pulse under his jaw, and he made an involuntary noise of pleasure deep in his throat, reaching out blindly to gather the warm, soft bundle against him more tightly in his arms.

Francie leaned her head on his shoulder, her hair tickling his skin, and pressed one hand flat against his chest, as though she were listening to and feeling the steady beat of his heart. Idly he stroked one hand up and down her bare back as his eyes finally cracked open and a feeling of contentment like he'd never known before in his life washed over him. If someone would have told him in that moment that he never had to leave this bed or this woman to do anything else for the rest of his life, he would have been glad. Joyfully glad.

He'd taken her again in the night, having fallen asleep inside her. He'd woken to feeling himself grow and harden right inside her moist, warm walls; they seemed to tighten around him as he grew and he'd been unable to do anything else but simply move. She had woken up a moment later to the feeling of him thrusting gently into her, and then the gentleness had gone away, replaced with a basic, primal instinct of _need_. He'd had her roughly, until they were both coming apart against each other; Forrest growling wordlessly into her throat and Francie moaning breathlessly into his shoulder.

Thinking of it now made him start to harden again; Forrest was now lying on his back, Francie tucked against him, and she could feel it against her hip. She smiled up at him.

"My," she whispered. "You have quite the appetite, Mr. Bondurant."

"When you feed a man after a long time of goin' hungry," he said, his voice throaty and deep from sleep, "it takes him a while to feel full, no matter how much he eats." His unintended double entendre struck him as soon as it was out of his mouth and he almost smiled.

"Speaking of being hungry and eating," Francie said, pushing herself up to hover over him. "I believe there's a hearty breakfast in store with your name on it."

"Is there?" Forrest murmured back, eyeing her breasts. His mouth watered, but he knew that no food she could cook would be able to satiate the hunger he was currently feeling. He dipped his head, unable to resist, and gently teased her nipple with his tongue, feeling it tighten in his mouth as she shuddered a little.

"Mm," she cooed softly, tilting her head to the side and pushing against his mouth a little. "That feels so wonderful."

As he sucked and teethed her nipple, Forrest's eyes wandered to the expanse of smooth golden skin between her jaw and shoulder. He pulled away from her breast to lick along the side of her throat, tonguing her pulse, before trailing his lips along the underside of her jaw. His hands slid down to grab her hips and pull her against him, feeling his manhood ache with hardened need for her again.

"Woman," he breathed unevenly, "you're fixin' to drive me insane." He bit back a groan when she shifted her hips and he felt her wet core grind against him. Somehow she maneuvered herself over him to tease his tip with her soaked opening.

"And you, me," she whispered, and inched down on him, taking a little more with every downward bob. Forrest clenched his jaw against the feeling of her incredible tightness moving down his length, pulling him into her depths the way a person might hand-over-fist a rope. He wanted to fill her with his seed once he was fully immersed inside her, but he blew out a sharp breath between his lips to get control of himself, grabbing her hips as she leaned over him. Her nipples, now taut and prominent with her arousal, dragged lightly over his chest as she lowered herself to him, and he eagerly caught one in his mouth as he prodded her hips to move against him. She pressed down hard until she was flush against him and then began rocking her hips forward. It was a sensation unlike any he'd felt before, to be buried to the hilt inside a woman and still feel a thrusting motion as well. It threatened to tear him apart, but he forced himself to calm; watching Francie reach her peak first, he had discovered, was worth the wait and seemed to intensify his own climax.

"Forrest," she breathed in his ear, her hips moving frantically against him. One of her forearms braced her weight by his head while her other hand cupped his jaw, her fingers digging in slightly as the sensations increased. Her lips pulled at his earlobe and he shuddered. "Forrest. I feel I'm going to burst."

He gripped her hips hard in both hands and held her in place while he thrust up into her. She keened ardently in his ear, moaning a broken version of his name over and over until he felt her insides grab him tightly and pulsate rapidly and she cried out into his neck. The feeling of her muscles contracting around him pulled him off the ledge behind her and he grunted, grabbing a handful of her backside and pressing her body tightly against his as his seed flooded her. After a moment her hips slowed and she rocked languidly against him, panting, her eyes shut. He felt his own eyes close and he stroked her skin more gently now, her rocking movements gentle like waves against a paddleboat.

He opened his eyes and stared up at her, wondering again if she, if all of this, were just a beautiful dream he'd have to wake from soon.

"So…beautiful," he heard his own voice mutter, and he promptly snapped his mouth shut. He hadn't meant to say it aloud.

Francie's eyes opened slowly and she stilled her movements against him. She looked down at him in something like amazement. "What was that, Forrest?"

"Umm. Nothin'," he said, cursing himself for saying it all and then not being man enough to repeat himself.

Francie tilted her head, her pale blue eyes boring into him. She smiled softly and reached out to stroke a finger down his cheek. "It is getting late. I must get downstairs and prepare breakfast before your customers arrive for the day." She pulled off of him and he immediately yearned for her tight warmth the moment it was gone from him. He started to get up after her, but she gently pressed a hand to his chest.

"Stay a while," she said softly. "Relax." He lay back obediently, staring up at her as she pulled the straps of her nightie up over her shoulders and grabbed a few things from her suitcase. She smiled at him and then left the room, heading for the bathroom.

:O:O:O:

Howard and Jack were already there when Forrest came down sometime later, dressed and cleaned and hungry. His two brothers eyed him as he made his way to the table they were at. Francie was at the stove, humming to herself.

"She's hummin'," Howard said pointedly over his cup of coffee. "_Hummin'._"

"Point bein'?" Forrest grumbled back. "Woman can hum if she wants."

"You look like a new man, Brother Forrest," Jack said with bright sarcasm. "You like right – er, _refreshed_."

Just then Francie came over with the coffee pot and filled Forrest's cup, giving him a little smile. "Good morning," she said for his brothers' benefit, knowing that she and Forrest had already exchanged rather vigorous morning well wishes.

Forrest just grunted in return and lifted his cup to his lips, lowering his eyes as she turned away. A moment later he jumped when his older brother's hand came flying at him, the back of it slapping hard over his arm.

"Howard, what the hell?" Forrest demanded, hot coffee sloshing over the side of his cup.

Howard glanced furtively toward Francie, who was busy dishing up breakfast. "You took that woman to bed, didn't you?" he whispered.

Jack made a crowing noise, balling a fist to his mouth. "Gee, Forrest!"

"Both of you sound like a bunch of ol' gossipin' bitties," Forrest said, annoyed. "Stay out of my business."

"See, even when he's bein' mean he still sounds a _mite_ more relaxed than before," Jack said to Howard, pointing at Forrest's face. He elbowed his older brother's arm. "Feel like a new man?"

"Not like you'd know," Forrest replied calmly, wiping up spilled coffee. Jack's face fell.

"Aw, fuck you, Forrest."

"Well, hallelujah, praise the Lord, and slap my ass and call me Jim," Howard said, smiling at his younger brother. "'Bout time there, Forrest. Bet she was sweet as can be."

"Why don't you both shut the fuck up 'fore she hears you?" Forrest hissed, beginning to feel truly annoyed now. He grabbed Howard's forearm and squeezed hard, narrowing his eyes at his older brother, who only smiled in amusement. "And don't ever talk about her bein'…sweet. Don't you even think about her like that."

"Yup, he's in love, too," Howard said to Jack, snickering.

"Do I get to share in the joke, as well?" Francie asked, suddenly appearing with plates in her hands. She looked curiously between the brothers, uncertain amusement on her face.

"Oh, no, ma'am," Howard said smoothly, accepting a plate from her. "We're just bein' foolish men. Nothin' worth repeatin' to a lady." He winked at her and patted her hand.

"Well, as you say," Francie said, setting a plate down in front of Jack. She laid a hand gently on Forrest's shoulder. "I'll be right back."

"Umm," Forrest grunted, feeling his face grow warm. _Damn them bastards_, he thought, glancing around and seeing identical shit-eating grins on his brothers' faces. Francie brought him his plate and he bobbed his head in acknowledgement.

"Well, you men enjoy," Francie said softly, and headed for the backdoor. Forrest's eyes immediately narrowed; he didn't want Francie out of his sight. Whether that was on account of the fact that she was in some real danger, or because he was ass-over-tea-kettle in love with her, he wasn't sure, but he didn't like it.

"Ain't you eatin' with us, Miss Francie?" Jack called.

Francie stopped at the door to smile at him. "I'm not very hungry right now," she said. "Maybe at lunch." She glanced quickly at Forrest and then lowered her eyes. "Eat up, now, before your meal gets cold." She slipped out the door, letting it shut behind her.

"She all right?" Jack asked with genuine concern, looking at his older brother before shoving a forkful of egg into his mouth.

Forrest wiped his mouth and stood up.

"That's right," Howard said proudly, reaching out to smack Forrest on the rump. "Go see 'bout your gal."

Forrest gave Howard a withering stare before he went to the door and headed outside. He glanced up; half of the sky was blue, and the other half was dark gray with heavy clouds heading toward them, heralding yet another storm. He assumed Francie had gone to her usual place atop the little storage shed and headed in that direction. He found her perched on top as expected.

"Why aren't you eating your breakfast?" she said in a lightly scolding tone, looking down at him.

With a grunt, he pulled himself up onto the roof and settled next to her, chewing absently at a toothpick. "Why are you out here all by yourself?"

"Just thinking," she replied.

"Tell me," he said simply, and looked out across the land instead of at her face to make her feel a little more comfortable.

She sighed heavily and chewed her lip. He didn't push her; the silence extended for a while before she sighed again. "I – I would like to talk to you about what happened. About New Orleans," she said softly.

Forrest merely nodded, waiting for her to continue.

"I – I had a fiancé once," she confessed quietly.

"I recall you mentionin' that to Jack."

"You were listening that day?" she asked, surprised.

"I'm always listenin'," he replied calmly.

"Well. Then you were listening when I said that he wasn't very good to me."

"I heard that." Forrest shifted his eyes toward her, searching her crystal blue eyes intently. "What exactly does that mean?"

"He was – he was very unkind to me," Francie said softly, averting her gaze. "He would mock me. Mock my appearance. Criticize me. Try to break me down. Controlled me." She cleared her throat. "And then later he began to beat me."

Fury rose in Forrest like bile in his throat. He envisioned a man, some faceless man, beating the woman next to him. "Fuckin' piece of shit," he spat.

"I wouldn't argue with that," Francie said quietly. She looked down at her hands for a moment before reaching up to play with the little locket at her neck. "Forrest," she said suddenly. "The day you fixed this for me. Why did you – why did you look in it?"

Forrest shifted uncomfortably. They hadn't discussed the issue of her race or her locket since that heated night in his office. His reasoning embarrassed him, but he owed her the truth nonetheless. "I, umm. I wondered who was in it. Who you was keepin' close to your heart. Wondered if it was some man. Maybe that old fiancé of yours." He chewed at his toothpick, looking away from her. "I reckon I felt a mite jealous."

She smiled sadly. "I'm sure my fiancé had the same idea, though he went about it a little differently." Forrest glanced at her. Her hands had started to shake. "One night in New Orleans, we had just returned from a ball. I had taken this locket off to wear something a bit more formal around my neck. I had gone into my powder room to change my clothes when he burst in. His name was – is – Thomas," she added, glancing at Forrest. "Something made him open my locket. Maybe he felt the same as you did. The next thing I knew, he was dragging me out by my hair and beating me, beating me horribly. I've never experienced such pain and rage before. And so," she stopped and drew in a long, shaky breath, "I went for the gun he kept on the side table. And I shot him. In the chest." She looked at Forrest steadily, almost as if she expected to see some judgment, some condemnation in his eyes. He merely looked impassively back at her.

"I thought I killed him. He certainly wasn't moving. So I packed up as many of my things as I could fit into one suitcase and filled one satchel with all the money he kept in his safe, plus some very valuable jewels that I intended to sell, and I got out of New Orleans. When I stopped in Atlanta, I was robbed, and I couldn't afford to go onto Roanoke, and then to New York from there. New York was my ultimate destination." She swallowed hard, biting her lip. "I only had just enough money left to come here, and then I didn't have any option but to try to walk the ten miles from the depot to town. And that was the day you found me.

"I guess they found him and took him to the hospital. I'm sure his mother hired that investigator, that Detective Rollins to come after me. She always hated me, she always thought something was 'off' about me. Before he discovered who I really am, he used to love to taunt me with that. That one day he'd find out what my little secret was. And his mother resented me for coming into their life even though she worked with my father to arrange the match before he died. She wanted our money, that was all. I'm sure eventually she would have tried to poison me, or something, just to get me out of the family." She sighed and shook her head. "The Lattimore family is quite prominent in New Orleans. Thomas was – is – a very well-respected and successful lawyer and the family has been in Louisiana for generations. So now this is a personal vendetta against me. I just never imagined – burning crosses – incorporating the _Klan,_ for God's sake."

Forrest was quiet for a little while. "Why'd that detective call you Miss 'Fontaine'?" he asked.

"That's my real surname," Francie replied quietly. "I changed it to Abellard when I left. That was my mother's surname."

"Your mother's _surname_?" Forrest repeated. "Wouldn't her surname have been Fontaine, too?"

"My parents were not married," Francie answered, her cheeks burning with shame.

"I see," Forrest replied. She wondered what he thought about that, but he didn't say anything else about it. Finally, he spoke again.

"Guess you picked the wrong family to cross," Forrest said lightly, and Francie looked at him sharply, hurt on her face. "But they picked the wrong gal to come after. Couldn'ta known you woulda met us. Bondurants don't lay down for nobody."

"I don't want you and your brothers getting mixed up in this," Francie said. "This – this is my problem, Forrest. You didn't ask for this, and you don't deserve to be caught up in it."

"Didn't expect to get caught up…in this." He reached over carefully and took her hand. She looked at him in surprise, but her small fingers tightened in his large ones. "But I have. And I won't let nothin' happen to you, Francie." _Because I'm in love with you_, he wanted to say, but didn't. He'd never said that to a woman before, not even Maggie. He didn't see why he should start today.

Her eyes scanned his face intently, a little frown creasing her brow. She was starting to get that stubborn, bullheaded look she always got when she was about to argue him down about something, but this time, she simply nodded.

"Thank you," she said quietly, and then leaned in toward him, leaning her head on his shoulder. Her fingers reached up and began to gently stroke his cheek. "I'm not used to having someone – care about me and want to protect me. My father was the only one who did."

"We – I – care about you," Forrest said gruffly. It was only the soft sensation of her fingertips on his scruffy cheek that pulled the admission from him.

"And I, you," she whispered back, pulling his face toward hers. He didn't have to turn far before he felt her lips, her sweet, plump lips that he'd spent so many moments thinking long and hard about. He bit back a groan at the feeling of her tongue stroking the seam of his lips lightly before her lips latched onto his upper one and suckled gently. He opened his mouth for her and then a moment later felt her warm, soft tongue slipping in to caress his.

"I could never get tired of this," she whispered against his lips. "Your mouth – does something to me."

"I'm well aware," he murmured back a little flippantly, thinking of the way he had feasted on the soft wet flesh between her legs until she had burst against his tongue. Involuntarily his mouth watered and he knew he had to have another taste of her soon. He had done that with Maggie, because she had asked him to, but he'd never felt the desire to do it the way he had with Francie; in fact, having now tasted her, he felt that he could do it every single day, and just for himself. It was merely icing on the cake that she enjoyed it too.

Francie let out a soft giggle before kissing him gently again. "Would it be all right if I went to the hospital today?" she asked. "I'd like to visit Miz Judy and see how she is. Bring her some flowers, perhaps. Then I'd like to check on Mrs. Everett."

"I'll drive you," Forrest said, his voice gruff from her kiss. "I have to go out to the still today." He thought for a moment. "Would – would you want to come out there with me?"

"To the still?" Francie blinked in surprise. "Well – certainly." Her lips curved in a little smile. "I'd like to go just about anywhere with you, Forrest."

The words made him happier than he cared to admit even to himself. He had something he wanted to talk about with her, but decided that it could wait. He wanted to enjoy this pleasantness while it lasted; he couldn't shake the feeling that their days together were numbered, in some fashion or another.

The thought made his heart tighten up. He'd lost one woman he had loved; now he had another woman that he felt even more strongly about. He didn't know what would become of him if he lost her, too.

He slid off the roof and held up his hands to help Francie down, even though he knew she didn't need it. She took his hands, and then his shoulders, and he swung her down from the roof. Before she could step away, he pushed her against the wall of the shed, the side that was shielded from the station, and used his body to hold her there. He took her hands again, his fingers interlocking with hers and he looked at them as if for the first time, curiously, as if he couldn't believe that a man's and a woman's hands could fit together in such a perfect way, as though they'd been born to be joined. He looked down into her eyes that were searching his face in a way that made him think she was trying to look into his mind, and he lowered his face to hers and took her lips with his again.

He had intended for it to be soft, sweet, but he quickly found himself taking her lips with an urgency he suddenly felt; as if this might be one of his last chances to kiss her, and if he didn't take as much from them as he could he would regret it forever. If she were caught off guard by his sudden needy desperation, she masked it well, clinging to him and taking everything from his mouth that he was taking from hers.

When he finally pulled away from her they were both breathing raggedly and shaking with need, despite having enjoyed each other's bodies three times in the past twelve hours. He wouldn't have her out here, only because his nosy brothers were lurking around. If they had been alone he would have gladly taken her wherever she would have let him.

He leaned his forehead against hers, closing his eyes as her trembling fingers stroked the skin of the back of his neck. He gripped her waist, his hands having slid underneath her sweater. He wished she wasn't wearing a slip under her clothing, wishing to feel her skin under his fingers.

"Gather up your things," he murmured. "I've got to go inside and have a word with my brothers. Then we'll be going."

"Yes, Forrest," she breathed against his mouth, both sets of her fingers going to work against his neck now.

He suppressed a shiver, and summoned every last bit of willpower and self-control he possessed to pull away from her. Her eyes were sweetly disappointed, but there was a little smile on her face, one that was laced with promise of better things to come when they could be alone.

He only wondered how long it could last.


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: Because I'm insane, I forgot to include something in Francie and Forrest's discussion from the last chapter. I meant to have him ask about her different surnames but forgot to write that in. I've added it now. Since you all already know the story, you don't have to go back and read it. However, my OCD wouldn't allow me to NOT include it, so there it is.**

**Anyway, onward with this story. Mal - this one's for you.**

**Read and review and stuff. Thanks. xo**

**Chapter 21**

Later that afternoon, Forrest's truck pulled away from the town, and Francie leaned back in the seat, staring out the window.

It had been harder somehow, going to see both of her former employers, her friends, the day following the explosion of chaos that had invaded the little town. Perhaps yesterday she had been shocked, too dull to do more than experience surface level emotions, but today, the hurt she felt for both women affected her acutely.

She had plucked two bouquets of wildflowers for each woman. She had sat with Miz Judy for a couple of hours, reading to her, talking to her. Sometimes Miz Judy would write notes back to her. The old woman was surprisingly upbeat and resilient; Francie admired her strength and thought there was no way that she, herself, could be so strong in such a situation.

After her visit with Miz Judy, Forrest drove her through the small town to see Mrs. Everett. This visit was worst of all. Like Francie the day before, the initial shock of the loss of the shop had dulled her senses and her reaction. Now that a day had passed and the full realization that she had lost her shop during a horrible depression had hit her, she was pale and listless. She hardly perked up at the sight of the flowers, though they were in such a sorry state from the constant beating rain that Francie couldn't blame her. She was hardly responsive to anything that Francie said, and at one point she had burst into tears with seemingly no additional provocation on Francie's part.

"Best let her be now," Forrest had said quietly, and ushered Francie out the door. She was alarmed; the normally sassy, vibrant woman had been reduced to a frightened shell of her former self. She wished there was something she could do.

"I'll keep an eye on 'em," Forrest had reassured her. "Me and old man Everett, we have us a decent friendship. He comes to the station often enough, though now that they lost a big chunk of their income, I don't 'spect to see him that often. At least I better not; man has better things to spend his money on than booze. But I'll try to help 'im out from time to time. He's a proud son of a bitch though, that man there. Don't 'spect he'll take any help from me without it feelin' like charity."

Francie had been too heartsick to say much else, so she took Forrest's hand and stared out the window on the way out to the still. She wasn't sure what to expect, having never seen any such thing in her life. It seemed relatively far from the station, but not being very accustomed to the location of the station in relation to other things besides the town, it could have been right down the road and she never would have known.

A light rain had started to fall; a heavy mist sluicing down from thick, heather gray clouds. There was no thunder or lightning yet. Francie cracked her window a bit to let in some of the fresh scent, and the mist blew gently into the cab. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Between the scent of the rain she loved and the scent of the man next to her, it created a heavenly, heady aromatic cocktail for her senses and she felt as lightheaded now as she had last night after finishing off half a jar of apple brandy.

As if reading her mind, or at least her very last thought, Forrest spoke up. "I s'pose a distillery is about the last place on earth you want to be, after last night."

She noticed he was being extremely chatty – for Forrest – this afternoon, and it made her heart swell with affection and appreciation. He sensed her mood, her hurt, and he was trying to do what he could to make her feel better and take her mind off it. She turned her head to look at him and smiled, squeezing his hand.

"I don't mind," she said. "I imagine the smell might be strong but I feel fine today. Some of our, er, activities might have helped with that." She felt her cheeks flush and she glanced away shyly. "Besides, your apple brandy was delicious. If I ever feel I can drink again, I would surely have some more of that." She glanced over at him again. "I've noticed that you don't drink much at all, but your brother Howard is almost, well…" She trailed off, catching herself. She silently scolded herself for almost being rude.

"A drunkard?" Forrest supplied. "It's not entirely his fault. He was in the war, y'see. He ain't quite right in the head. Picked up the booze as a means of escape, I reckon." He paused. "He used to have real bad dreams. He ain't lived at Blackwater in some time so I don't know if he still does. But he used to wake up hollerin', in cold sweats, thinkin' he was still back in France."

"I can relate," Francie muttered. "Not to the war part, of course. But to the nightmares. Sometimes they feel so real."

"You certainly had your fair share," Forrest said evenly. "Couple nights you would lay in bed cryin' out from dreams."

Francie said nothing; the thought shamed her a bit. She was a grown woman, after all; it was a little embarrassing to imagine being caught having a nightmare like a little child.

"And you're a heavy sleeper. It was near impossible to wake you up. Other night you woke up tryin' to fight me."

"I'm sorry," Francie replied, unsure of what else to say.

Forrest shrugged. "No need to say you're sorry," he said.

The discussion brought something to mind that they had never discussed; now that they had broken a barrier of intimacy, Francie worked up her nerve. She squeezed his hand a little. "That first night at the station," she said quietly. "I was certain – you came to my bed. You held me. Touched me. Why?" Her cheeks felt hot again.

Forrest shifted and she could tell he was a little embarrassed too. A little, but not much. "You was havin' a nightmare that night," he said. "Came up. Found you squallin' like a scalded cat." He squeezed her hand back to let her know he was just teasing. "I couldn't wake you up for nothin', no matter how hard I shook you or how loud I talked to you. Seemed to me like you just needed some comfortin'." He snorted ruefully. "That night was one of the rare ones where I actually decided to partake in some imbibin'. Otherwise I never woulda got up the gumption to do it."

"The way you were touching me," Francie began, then found she didn't know how to go on.

Forrest glanced at her quickly, then cleared his throat. "I – I probably should apologize for that," he said, sounding slightly abashed. "It was the 'shine. I – It had been a long time since I'd touched a woman. And you've got about the softest, smoothest skin I ever felt. I behaved poorly. It – it was the 'shine."

_It wasn't the 'shine_, Francie thought, but instead she said, "Don't apologize, Forrest. It felt – _you_ felt – amazing." She thought back to that night, how his fingers had traveled over her skin, and she felt warmth pooling way down low between her thighs. "I certainly felt comforted, indeed."

They did not speak again until they reached the still, but still kept their hands joined. When they pulled up to what appeared to be a heavily forested area, Forrest surprised her by brushing her knuckles with his lips before releasing his hand so he could get out. He jogged around the truck to her side to open the door for her, and by the time he did, his cotton shirt and his hair were damp from the rain.

"Best get ready to run a little," he said, and helped her out of the cab.

It wasn't raining heavily, at least not by Francie's standards, but it was coming down steadily, and she jogged blindly after Forrest, her sweater and skirt growing more and more wet. She followed him through a thick copse of trees that helped keep the rain at bay at least a little before moving toward a small hill. They came to what she assumed was some sort of cave entrance, but as he moved some of the natural brush away, she saw that it was indeed a cave, but a manmade one that was dry and warm, and filled with machinery and what looked like big steel tubs and huge wooden barrels. She blinked in surprise.

"This is quite – efficient," she remarked. "Did you make this yourself?"

"Me, and my brothers," Forrest replied. "This here is the new one. We used to have another one but it got destroyed last year." His voice took on a slightly bitter tone. "Win some, lose some I guess. But we came back, so that's all that matters. This one is even better than the last one. We got some top of the line equipment now. And this location is all but hidden from the average person. You'd have to be a damned directionless fool to stumble onto this place."

Forrest began explaining to her how they made their liquor. They started with different fruits, whole rye, and corn, combining it with water, sugar and yeast. This mixture would sit in the barrel at a certain temperature for a week, then be strained. The liquid from the "mash," as he called it, would be moved to a larger drum and then heated until the point of evaporation, taking care not to boil it. He took her around the still, as various barrels and drums were in different stages of the moonshine process to prepare for the enormous order that Floyd Banner had called for. The end result, he told her, was some of the strongest, finest whiskey known to man.

Most of what he said was confusing to Francie, and thus went in one ear and out the other, but she loved hearing him talk, and she couldn't help being impressed with his knowledge and business savvy. He took her to one of the finishing drums and poured out into a tiny glass a mouthful of the alcohol, from a tap in the barrel. He held it out to her, the corner of his mouth twisting up into something that would be as close to a smile as she would ever get from him.

"Have to give it a taste, at least," he said. "Seein' as how I brought you down here, and all. You got the power to take me down now, if you wanted."

Francie reluctantly took the little glass from him and glanced at him over the rim. "Do you believe I would?"

Forrest gave her a long, even look, one that went to the bottom of her stomach and made her feel warm all over. He radiated danger, and the thought that he would never turn that danger on her made her tingle.

"No," he answered quietly. "I don't believe you would."

Francie knew the effort it required of him to give her that answer, as he didn't trust anyone, and her heart melted a little bit more.

"Now, g'on," he said, nodding to the glass in her hand. "Enough stallin'."

Francie sighed and bit her lip. The smell of the alcohol was almost overwhelming, but she supposed that she should comply in the spirit of the outing. She took a deep breath, then bolted the contents of the glass. It absolutely lived up to its nickname of "white lightning"; it set her mouth on fire and burned down her throat, all the way into her chest. She shook her head, coughing and spluttering. Forrest gave her another little ghost of a smirk and took the glass back from her.

"I much prefer the apple brandy, thank you," Francie said hoarsely, covering her mouth. "My goodness." She watched as Forrest poured out a taste for himself and took an experimental sip, as though he were really concentrating on the flavor. He was completely unfazed, as though he were sipping water. Finally he nodded.

"That's good," he said. "I'm happy with that."

"How can you tell?" Francie demanded, then covered her mouth. "My apologies, Forrest. I didn't mean to insult your product."

His pewter eyes twinkled at her. "Well. Now you've gone and hurt my feelin's." Francie's eyes widened. If she didn't know better, she might have thought that Forrest was…_teasing _her. Being playful with her. But it was so at odds with his constantly serious demeanor that she had to second-guess herself.

Forrest reached out and tugged on her hand. He wouldn't outright pull her toward him, but she understood that he wanted her to come near. She stepped up against him breathlessly, her heart beating swiftly with excitement when he slowly slid his arms around her and dipped his head, grazing her neck with his lips.

"Now, what're you gonna do to make me feel better?" he murmured into her ear. A moment later she felt the tip of his tongue slide up the side of her neck before moving back down and across her collarbones to the other side.

She could only hear her own blood pounding in her ears as well as the steady, light patter of rain outside. The smell of nature and the sharp scent of alcohol were all rousing that primal being that lived deep within her, the one that operated off of only the simplest, most fundamental needs and desires. The thought crossed her mind fleetingly that she wanted to mate like a beast outside in the rain. She thought she should feel ashamed at such a thought; but she didn't. She recalled him saying that this place was well tucked away in the heavily forested foothills.

"Forrest," she whispered into his ear. "No one knows about this place. Right?"

"Just m'brothers," he mumbled back, his deep voice sending ripples of vibration against her neck. "Why?"

She shuddered when he suckled gently at her pulse. "Making sure," she murmured back, then pushed lightly away from him. He looked surprised, and then his gaze darkened slightly when she reached down and pulled her sweater up over her head. She kept her eyes on him and unzipped her skirt and slid it down over hips. She was left in her slip and drawers.

"What are you doin'?" Forrest asked softly. His breath seemed to hitch a little when she slid the straps of her slip over her shoulders and let it fall down her body, pooling at her ankles. She stepped up close to him and reached for his shirt.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" she whispered back, brushing her lips to his jaw as her fingers quickly released the buttons on his shirt. She pulled it out of his pants and pushed his suspenders off his shoulders. She shoved the shirt off his arms and reached for his pants, the bulge she saw there making her mouth water. Forrest reached for her upper arms and began to stroke them lightly as she released him from his britches.

"Not sure this is part of the distillery process," he said quietly, "but it might liven the flavor a bit."

_As I live and breathe,_ she thought in wonder, pulling his undershirt up his body. _Forrest Bondurant made a joke._

He grabbed her by the waist and yanked her roughly against him, pulling her face up to his to take her lips in a hard kiss that only ratcheted up her need for him even higher. He slipped a hand into the waistband of her bloomers, sliding it down to stroke her backside. She felt her core throbbing rapidly, and she knew she needed to feel him inside her before she went to pieces.

"Pull my bloomers down," she commanded him softly, and he snapped his eyes sharply to her face. It was a risk, she knew; Forrest wasn't a man who took kindly to being ordered around. After a moment of hesitation, he took the waistband of her panties in both hands and tugged them down her legs, kneeling to pull them completely off her ankles. On his way back to a standing position, he paused next to her core, his nose brushing her trimmed curls, and she felt him inhale before he rose to his full height again. She immediately felt herself dampen.

"Now," she went on, managing to keep her voice steady. Between him inhaling her fragrance and the fact that she could see him coming through his boxer shorts, it was enough to make her weak. "Remove my brassiere."

With less hesitation this time, he reached around her back and unhooked the garment and slowly pulled it away from her body. His hands immediately went to her breasts, kneading them gently and stroking her nipples with his thumbs. He leaned toward her, burying his face in her neck as he teased her nipples with his fingers.

"Need you now," he muttered into her skin. His hands slid down her sides to her hips and he drew her sharply against him, and she felt his need hard against her lower belly. She couldn't contain a tiny squeak; it was hard as a rock and straight as an arrow. "Bad."

"Follow me," she whispered against his skin. "Outside."

He pulled back to look in her eyes, unsure but intrigued. She took him by the hand and led him outdoors. The mist had grown a little heavier into a light rain, and the cool water immediately made her nipples stand out. Forrest didn't miss it, reaching for her breast. She wrapped his arms around her from behind and kept walking, searching for the perfect place. She found it a moment later; in the middle of a small, thick copse of trees was a clearing. A very small clearing, as if the Lord himself had made a space for lovers to join together in the kingdom of His earth in privacy. The grass was soft and wet, and the rain poured down. They were shielded from view, encircled by thick, low-growing white flowering dogwoods.

Francie tugged Forrest close and pulled him to his knees as she sank down. He seemed a little uncertain, but Francie pulled his head down to hers, taking his lips with feverish hunger, devouring his mouth and tongue. She pushed him onto his back, loving the way he closed his eyes and tilted his head back into the rain. She leaned over him to nuzzle his neck, lapping up the moisture from the droplets the rain left on his skin before claiming his mouth again. She moved down his body, finally pulling off the cumbersome boxer shorts and freeing him. He lifted his head in surprise, and his mouth fell open silently when she dipped her head to run her tongue up his length to his tip before tilting her head forward and plunging back down, taking all of him into her mouth.

She had only done this a few times before, and that had only been with Jimmy – so long ago. Thomas had referenced her wanting to do this to him but not until their wedding night; she was certain she wouldn't have enjoyed that at all. She felt rusty at first, but Forrest felt so nice, the way he filled her mouth, and tasted so warm and delicious that she soon moved of her own accord, less about making sure she was doing it "correctly" and more about bringing pleasure first to herself, and second to him.

Regardless, Forrest seemed to be enjoying it. He grunted deeply in his chest and his hand snaked into her damp black curls, fisting them, and he helped prod her head into a rhythm. She squeezed her cheeks around him, swirling her tongue all over the head of his length, dipping her tongue into the slit to draw out his essence, and then dipped her head low, taking as much of him in as she could. He hissed a curse when his tip hit the back of her throat.

He gently tugged her hair upward, indicating that he wanted her to stop, and then pulled her up his body and gathered her in his arms. Though the rain was cold and light on their skin, Francie felt his body heat and it snaked all around her, warming her. "Where in the hell did you learn to do that," he murmured lazily into her ear. She felt him even harder than before against her hip, and she longed to feel him deep inside her as he had been deep inside her mouth.

"I – I had a lover once," she whispered back, feeling awkward. She felt Forrest stiffen slightly as his lips stopped their movements against her earlobe. She gripped him tighter instinctively, afraid he would pull away from her. "When I was a teenager. Many years ago."

"He taught you to do that?" Forrest asked, his voice gruff. He hadn't pulled away, had allowed her to continue to hold and touch him, but jealousy radiated off of him.

She stroked his cheek. "What I learned was how much I could enjoy pleasing a man," she whispered back. "Pleasing a man that – that – I have fallen in love with." The confession made her breath stop; she hadn't intended to tell him this way. She hadn't intended, really, to tell him at all. He met her eyes sharply, droplets of moisture from the rain sliding off his eyelashes.

"You mean that?" he asked evenly. She swallowed nervously; she couldn't have felt more terrified than if he'd had a gun pointed at her.

"I mean it," she said in a tiny voice.

He stared into her eyes for another beat, and then he was lunging at her, capturing her lips with his, rolling her onto her back in the wet grass. She grasped at him wildly, whimpering when he used a knee to roughly part her thighs. He kissed a hard path down her jaw into her neck and then nipped at it with his teeth.

"You belong to me?" he asked into her flesh. She opened her mouth to answer and then gasped when she felt two of his fingers push into her walls and probe her deeply. She felt her juices gush around his fingers, and he felt it too, growling into her throat. "Tell me."

"I-I belong to you, Forrest," she moaned and gasped sharply again when his fingers hit a spongy mass inside her and a deep tingling sensation settled into her pelvis.

"Tell me you won't leave me." He stroked her insides again while at the same time pulling one of her damp nipples onto his tongue. She watched the way his mouth filled with her flesh, droplets of rain rolling off either side of her rounded breast.

"I won't – I won't –" Francie panted, then let out a low scream when he moved down her body and his mouth landed on her, just above his fingers. He worked his fingers inside her walls as his lips and tongue swirled at her soft flesh, closing around the hardened little pearl at the apex of her sex. He lifted his head, his pewter eyes flashing at her through the mist.

"Tell me, damn you," he growled, and lowered his mouth back to her flesh, tonguing her pearl firmly. The combination of her moisture and his from his mouth, combined with the falling rain caused his tongue to swipe over her most sensitive area just right, and she burst then, from his fingers deep within her and his mouth on top of her, and it was unlike anything she'd ever experienced before. She felt as if she kept coming and coming apart, falling to pieces around him and under him over and over again. Her body pulsed and convulsed as waves of pleasure washed over her. She felt she literally could not form words in that moment, but feeling his teeth nibbling on her pearl brought her back.

"I won't leave you," she moaned out, writhing her hips and grinding her sex against his mouth as he grunted appreciatively. He replaced his fingers with his tongue and grabbed her hips, pulling her harder against his mouth, further onto his tongue so he could taste her more deeply. "I won't leave you, Forrest." He slowly pulled his mouth and tongue from her and moved up her body, bracing himself over her. She looked at his arms, his thick biceps defined and straining against his skin, tensing and flexing as he held himself up. He reached one hand down between them, holding his hardened length. She watched as he stroked his hand up and down it, lowering it to point into her soaked flesh.

"Tell me what you told me a minute ago," he breathed, his eyes still flashing strangely. She knew what he meant and pushed herself onto her elbows beneath him, stretching up a shaking hand to grip the side of his face. Rain continued to fall steadily and it dripped off his head and face and onto hers. Her lashes were clumped with moisture as she blinked up at him.

"I love you, Forrest," she said. "I love you."

Suddenly, her breath left her as she found herself flat on her back in a flash. She grunted a little from the impact, and then it turned into a scream of pleasure when he unceremoniously thrust his length deep into her wet depths. He groaned into her neck and began to thrust hard and deep with his hips as she lifted her legs, pulling them back to her chest. She couldn't breathe, and didn't want to as he hit her deeply, sliding in and out of her tightness with direct purpose. She started moaning his name, her hands sliding wetly against his rain-soaked flesh as he took her hard.

He pulled back onto his knees, spreading his thighs slightly, and grabbed her hips, elevating them so that her shoulder blades only touched the ground. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he pounded into her, his fingers digging into her skin so hard she knew she'd have marks later. She didn't care, pushing her hips back onto him as hard as she could manage in time to his strokes. Before she knew it, she was bursting and gushing around him again, feeling her own wetness trickling down her backside as it left her. She opened her mouth to moan but couldn't even manage it, her body shaking. He must have felt it, felt her walls tightening around him like a fist, because he hissed sharply and cursed out a mixture of her name and a few other choice words. He set her back down and pulled out of her, then turned her over onto her stomach.

He took a hold of her hips again, drawing them back toward him, and entered her smoothly, filling her stretched walls to the brim. He placed one hand on the small of her back while the other kept hold of her hip and began thrusting into her again. The change in angle made her gasp and shriek a little; she'd never been taken this way before and she'd never felt such a sensation. She reached back to grab his hip, looking at him over her shoulder. He met her eyes, his brow furrowed fiercely with concentration. They locked eyes, and then Francie was coming apart again, her back bowing in under the explosion of pleasure going off in her pelvis. She was unsure if it was the position or the look on Forrest's face and the way he clenched his jaw that undid her, but it was her most powerful climax yet.

She threw her head back and wailed into the rain, just as a clap of thunder finally broke in the sky. Her body convulsed rapidly and her legs shook, threatening to topple her over. She barely noticed when Forrest withdrew from her and sat down, placing her on his lap, sliding right up inside her. He gathered her into his chest and she braced herself on her knees, automatically moving up and down on his length even as her body continued to tremble.

He buried his mouth in her neck and one hand in her hair, the other arm wrapping protectively across her back to hold her close to him. Her arms went around his neck and he was inside her so deeply it made her whine in his ear. He practically moved her body for her on his length, and she was grateful, feeling drained from her pleasures. And then it was happening again, just like that, and she was helpless to do anything but withstand it, her walls clamping tight around him and fluttering rapidly as she squeezed around him. She tilted her head back into the rain, feeling it consume her as her body was consuming her now with pleasure.

"_Forrest. Forrest_," she panted and moaned. "Oh, Forrest. _Yes!_"

He growled out her name in reply, and then with a deep groan, muffled in her skin, she felt him throbbing inside her, felt him shooting hot liquid deep within her, felt his body shake with release under her grasping hands. "_Fuck,_ Francie," he rasped. "Feel so goddamn good." His arms squeezed around her and he fell onto his back, taking her with him.

She leaned her forehead against his shoulder for a moment, panting, feeling him still buried deep inside her and twitching as the last of his release left him. She lifted her head, looking down at him and smoothing away the short hair that was plastering itself to his forehead. He searched her eyes intently with his and then pulled her head down, kissing her swollen lips gently.

"I meant what I said, Forrest," she whispered to him. "All of it."

He nodded, but something like sadness or doubt flashed into his eyes briefly. He opened his mouth to say something, but then thunder boomed overhead again, followed by an arc of lightning that was too close for comfort.

"Need to get out of this clearin'," Forrest said, and rolled forward, still holding her. He pushed himself to his feet and carried her out of the clearing. She leaned her head on his shoulder as they moved, beginning to tremble with cold. When they reached the still, they dressed silently, Francie studying him as he put his clothes back on. Something had changed in him, and she didn't know what it was. It frightened her.

He waited for her to finish dressing and squeezing the excess moisture out of her hair. He reached for her hand but wouldn't look into her eyes.

"Gonna have to run again," he said quietly, and opened the door to the still. They dashed through the rain to his truck, and he opened the door and handed her in. Then he hurried around the front to climb in beside her.

As he started the truck, Francie couldn't contain herself. "Forrest, what is it?" she asked plaintively, her eyes wide. "Did I say something – do something – wrong?"

"Hell, no," he growled, looking straight at her. "Not a damn thing."

"Then what is it?" she asked gently, somewhat mollified but still unsure.

"It's – nothin'," he replied. "Don't you fret." He cleared his throat. "We'll be back to the station in no time. You don't need to cook or nothin' like that tonight. We'll be fine."

"I want to," she said softly. She reached out, hesitantly stroking his hand lightly with her fingertips. "I want to take care of you, Forrest."

He glanced down at her fingers, then back to the road. After a moment, he sighed heavily and curled his fingers around hers.

"Me, too," he replied.

It should have made her happy, but for some reason, Francie suddenly felt terribly sad.


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: I'm sorry for the lack of updates this week. I've had a roller-coaster week. It's been extremely emotionally draining and my Muse has suffered because of it. I had to get this chapter out before the weekend, and I'm sure it's full of typos and other things I will probably want to alter later on. But I didn't want to leave you hanging (assuming you were) so, here you go. Please read, review, enjoy, and have a great weekend. Besos.**

**Chapter 22**

Forrest stood at the stove, moodily cooking meals for the patrons currently in the station. Night was falling, and although the dinner rush had passed, he knew there would be an influx of men at his place now that Miz Judy's juke joint was currently closed for business. He was grouchy about it, because he often looked forward to relatively quiet weekend nights without a lot of traffic. He still made money hand over fist, even sharing a percentage with Miz Judy, but he still got to enjoy peace on the weekend.

But now that her place was closed indefinitely with the proprietress herself laid up in the hospital, all the men in town felt like Blackwater was the place to be. He'd predicted this might happen, as soon as he saw the wreckage that had once been the store, and the state of the owner. Even as he took in the wreckage of the seamstress's shop, the burning crosses falling apart in flaming heaps, and all of the destruction that the general store had endured, he'd known that he and his brothers were going to be very, very busy men. On the one hand, that was generally a good thing. It meant more business, more clientele, and obviously, more money. On the other, it meant an increase in danger; not everyone that came to the station was a friend. He knew that all too well.

When he and Francie had returned to the station that evening, he had made sure that his brothers knew they were not to go anywhere that evening, that they better stay put and help him deal with the extra clientele. Neither one had argued with him; they both seemed to sense his extreme moodiness. And when Forrest was moody, it was never a good idea to further perturb him. Both of his brothers and a score of other men had come to know this well.

As he flipped hamburgers in the skillet and puffed on his cigar, Forrest couldn't really pinpoint the reason for his sullenness. It was more than just having to deal with a lot more customers than normal; this thought was annoying at worst but nothing that would ordinarily get under his skin. And after a passion-filled night, morning, and afternoon with a beautiful woman, he ought to have been doing just fine.

But he wasn't.

To be sure, his body was supremely satisfied as it hadn't been for a very long time. In fact, he felt differently with Francie than he had with Maggie. He hated to compare the two completely different women, but he reckoned it was only natural, since Francie was the first woman he'd had since Maggie, and between his physical desire for her and his heart's desire for her, he knew it far exceeded what he'd felt for his previous lover. He realized he hadn't really thought of the redheaded woman once today up until now. She was receding from him, slowly to be sure, but her ghost was finally leaving.

Unfortunately, so was Francie, it appeared.

He wanted to be selfish and keep her with him always. He wanted to be constantly at her side, looking out for her, keeping her safe. Making her happy in his own special way. That was a thought that was difficult to fathom; she seemed to be genuinely happy when she was with him. That he and his fussy, grumpy ways could make anyone happy was beyond him, but so it seemed to be the case with the beautiful, strange-looking woman who had so easily and completely captured his heart.

But a greater part of him knew that she couldn't stay in Franklin. It wasn't safe for her to be there, and the attacks seemed to be growing in amount and frequency. He couldn't selfishly continue to put her life – and theirs – at risk for his own pleasures, no matter how much he cared for her. That thought weighed on his heart and mind, and it was born the moment she'd told him that she loved him out in that rainy clearing in the forest. He hadn't been able to bring himself to say it back to her, and it made him feel a little guilty. One reason being because he'd never said that to anyone, let alone a woman. He'd never even said it to Maggie. Another reason was that if he did say it, if he did tell her the truth, it would only hurt worse when she inevitably left him. And she would, because that was apparently the pattern with women he loved. The circumstances might have been different, but in the end, the outcome was the same – they left.

Francie had insisted on cooking dinner for them before retiring to her room upstairs. He would need to go up there sooner or later and speak to her about the following days. He had decided that the best course of action was to purchase her a train ticket and send her on to New York. She could leave as soon as tomorrow, if she liked. There was nothing more holding her back here, now that she was out of her jobs and she had some money saved up. He decided as well that they would sleep apart tonight. There was no sense in prolonging the agony; he must revert to treating her like a stranger. If he didn't, he knew he would never let her leave. And that would likely be the death of her.

His thoughts were interrupted simultaneously by the slight burning odor of the meat frying in the pan below him and also a chorus of loud, rough voices. He removed the skillet from the burner and glanced up as at least a dozen men strolled through the doors of the station.

"Evenin', gents!" one of the men shouted loudly, and Forrest could tell that he, along with several others, was drunk as a skunk. He glanced briefly over some of the faces, trying to discern whether or not he recognized any of them, but then he was immediately bombarded behind the bar for food and liquor.

"Jack," he called sharply, beckoning for his baby brother to come and help him. Jack immediately joined him behind the bar and they spent the next several moments dishing up food and pouring out quantities of apple brandy and moonshine. Then men seemed to shout louder and louder and soon, Forrest's head was pounding from the noise. The station wasn't the quietest place in the County, to be sure, but it was a far cry from the uproarious atmosphere of Miz Judy's.

When the food orders were done, he left Jack to tend to the rest of the men wanting liquor and began to move the soiled dishes to the sink to be washed. The dishes did need to be moved, but the effort was mostly expended to not have to deal with the customers for a moment.

After a few moments, the noise died down to a more tolerable level as the men settled in to a handful of chairs at tables around the room, and Forrest returned to the bar, stifling a yawn. He was about to tell Jack and Howard to hold down the fort while he went upstairs to talk to Francie but one of the men, seated a table not far from him, caught his eye.

Fury rose in him and before he knew what he was doing he was throwing his kitchen towel down violently onto the counter and reaching into his pocket to slip his fingers automatically through the heavy brass of his favorite weapon. The man happened to be looking back at Forrest as well, watching as the middle Bondurant slowly made his way across the room, his hand tensing and clenching in his pocket. He didn't look particularly concerned, and it made Forrest even angrier.

He came to a stop directly in front of the man and looked down at him. "Now, I'm certain," he drawled, his voice sharp as a razor's edge, "that the last time you showed your face around here I told you that I'd be cuttin' off your balls and feedin' them to our pigs. To see you sittin' here, now, in my place like you ain't got a care in the world means that you're either one dumb sumbitch, or you think I ain't a man of my word." Forrest leaned down and spoke quieter. "Either way, you just fucked up, son."

James smiled up at him and slowly rose to his feet. The man had at least a couple inches of height on Forrest, but it meant nothing at all to him. As his daddy was fond of saying, it wasn't the size of the dog in the fight that mattered; it was the size of the fight in the dog. And Forrest knew that it was going to be fight.

"Forrest, now," James said placatingly. "I know we ain't the best of friends or nothin', but come on. We on the same side here. You do business with Mr. Banner, I do business with Mr. Banner. We supposed to be friendly if nothin' else."

Forrest knew the man was mocking him, and he didn't appreciate it at all. "Get the hell out of my station," he replied calmly.

James lifted an eyebrow. "Sure will. Just as soon as you bring me that little colored gal you're keepin' here. I'll be on my way."

"And why the fuck-hell would I do a thing like that?" Forrest asked, his voice going even quieter as fury threatened to flame out of his eyeballs.

"Someone's lookin' for her," James said in a mock-conspiratorial whisper. "Someone she pissed off bad. And they're payin' me a lot of money to bring her back." He reached out and patted Forrest's shoulder, just as the dozen men he'd entered with rose to their feet. Someone of them pulled white hoods out of their back pockets and pulled them over their heads. "So, if you could just be a good lad and go fetch her, I'd sure appreciate it."

With a sinking stomach, Forrest realized that he and his brothers hadn't walked into a trap – they'd allowed one to be brought to their own door. He glanced at his brothers – Howard looked annoyed more than anything, and Jack looked nervous, but both nodded at him ever so slightly. This might very well be their last moment on earth, but he'd be damned if they, the legendary, seemingly invincible Bondurants, went down without one hell of a fight.

Forrest glanced back at James, who was still touching his shoulder, and sighed.

"Don't you ever touch me, boy," Forrest said quietly, and then let his brass-knuckled fist fly, driving it straight into the man's face with deadly force and sending his head flying back in a spray of blood and teeth.

The room exploded in an instant into shouts, the sound of fists striking flesh and wooden furniture being upended and thrown around. Forrest ducked as a chair was hurled at him, and then swung his brass so hard into a man's face that it tore open his flesh in a single blow. Two more men converged on him immediately and he fought them off, enraged. He had no idea how his brothers were faring.

Suddenly he felt the fiery hot slashing sensation of his flesh being opened with a knife; some bastard had sliced him open, and deep. He whirled around and then felt his arms being pinned to his sides. One man reached out and yanked off the set of iron keys that Forrest kept around his neck.

"Let's go have us a little bonfire, boys!" the man shouted, and while Forrest struggled against his captors, the man picked up a broken chair leg and clocked Forrest across the face. The world went fuzzy for a moment, and then black, and Forrest slipped to the floor.

:O:O:O:

Francie heard the commotion from downstairs, and fear lanced through her. A large group of men, loud, raucous and already drunk, had showed up a half an hour earlier, and now it seemed they were in a fight. At first she'd thought it was a standard bar fight, men too far into their cups to know what they were doing, and the Bondurants would break it up. But then she'd heard Forrest having sharp words with one of the men, and then chaos had exploded.

She had no idea what to do; part of her told her she should try to escape from the roof, or hide, or stay put. Another part of her decided she simply couldn't leave the Bondurant brothers to face the danger alone. She had a strong suspicion that whatever was going on downstairs had, at least partly, to do with her. And she was thoroughly tired of leaving others to pick up the pieces of her life choices.

She paced frantically, growing more and more anxious as the brawl continued, wracking her mind for some useful course of action. She suddenly remembered something – Forrest kept a pistol in his bedroom. She had seen it there once. In fact, he had several, but she knew for a fact that he always kept one pistol in his room. She wasn't sure what good she could do with it, but maybe if she could get it to him, it could help stop whatever was happening. She knew that Forrest didn't have pistol on him when they had come back from the still, and perhaps hadn't had an opportunity to get hold of any of the guns he kept downstairs, behind the bar and in his study.

She wrenched open her bedroom door and had taken just a few steps out into the hallway when a figure lurched toward her from the stairs. She yelped in surprise and sidled away quickly, her back hitting the wall as she stared at the figure. He stepped into the dim light of the hallway, and she reeled away. It was Banner's man, James, the one who had grabbed her just a few nights before.

"Well, well," he said softly, stopping and planting his hands on his hips. "Lookie what we got here. I been lookin' all over for you, young lady." He laughed and began moving toward her.

"You stay away from me!" Francie said, her voice shaking. "Stay away!"

"Or what?" James asked, feigning concern. "Your man Forrest'll come up here and kick my little bee-hind?"

"He'll _kill_ you," Francie spat, trying to move away from him again but finding only more wall. He gradually began to close in on her.

"Will he?" James asked, covering his mouth with one hand. "Oh me, oh my. I guess I best watch out now, shouldn't I?" He reached her and boxed her in against the wall, leaning into her face. "'Course, might be a mite hard for him to do anythin' from where he's layin' on the floor, out like a little light bulb." He leaned in and leered into her face.

Francie let out a cry and shoved out, connecting with the man, but he was too fast and too strong for her and just laughed, grabbing her wrists and hauling her in close. "Mm, just a feisty little colored wildcat, ain't ya?" he whispered in her ear. "I do believe that I'm gonna have me some fun with you before I give you to Rollins. I gotta find out if your pussy is pink or not. Don't tell me."

"Get away from me!" Francie gasped in a strangled voice, fighting hard against him. She glanced over his shoulder and saw that the top of the stairs was only a few feet away. She tried to push him backward but he fought her momentum, swinging her around a little as they struggled.

"Don't you fight me now," he said through gritted teeth. "You'll only make this worse. Come on, now, you knock this shit off!" He shuffled his feet backward a few steps before trying to shove forward against her.

She couldn't stop her feet from moving backward, her upper body from leaning back against the force of his shove, but on reflex, she kicked her right foot out and it connected solidly with James' gut. Instinctively she shoved with her foot, and suddenly, he was going toppling down the stairs, backward, his body cracking sickeningly on every wooden step on the way down. Francie wasted no time, hurrying across the hall to Forrest's room for the pistol before James could make his way back up the stairs to get her. Francie yanked the pistol from the nightstand next to Forrest's bed and with shaking fingers, pushed out the barrel to check to see that it was loaded. All six shots were in place in the revolver and she lifted it, holding it out in front of her as she ran back out into the hallway. She reached the top of the stairs just in time to see James hobbling out the front door to the station onto the porch. She hurried down the stairs and froze, gasping in shock when she saw the bright flash of fire coming from outside. She ran the rest of the way down the stairs, skipping two or three at a time and pressed herself to the window. The storage shed was on fire – and then, as she watched, it exploded, all the corn whiskey inside working as powerful dynamite with the fire finally reached the liquid.

It was an explosion that rocked the station and for a moment, she was thrown off her feet. Her temple slammed painfully into the corner of the sideboard and she glanced dully in front of her, dazed. Then she realized she could smell smoke.

_The station is on fire!_ she realized, seeing flames licking up the side of the edifice outside. She lurched to her feet and turned into the dining area, where she saw the last of the fight underway. Jack and Howard were each brawling with two men a piece, and Forrest was rising shakily to his feet from where he'd been on the ground. James had been telling the truth – the blast from the explosion must have shaken him to consciousness. There was blood trickling down Forrest's forehead and his shirt was stained bright red from a wound in his side, but he was staring at his opponent intently, in a focused way that made Francie think that maybe he couldn't feel his wounds at all.

She pulled the hammer back on the revolver and raced into the room. "Stop!" she screamed, but the men didn't seem to hear her or see her, or care. So, she pointed the gun at one of the nearest men, wearing a white Klan hood, and she pulled the trigger. Immediately he crumpled, the bullet she'd fired going into the back of his thigh. He howled in pain.

Before she had time to think about what she had just done, she turned again and aimed the gun at another man, and pulled the trigger. This shot went right into his back and he flew forward before falling. In the meantime, she had certainly gotten the other men's attention. They all froze as they stared at her, and then the men that had been fighting the brothers abandoned their fights and raced out the door. She couldn't believe that they didn't seem to have guns themselves, but there had to have been more of them than just these few.

She raced to Forrest's side as he leaned over a chair, grasping at his side and cursing loudly. "Are you all right?" she gasped, reaching for him.

"Sumbitches cut me," he managed. "What was that explosion?"

"They blew up the corn, Forrest!" Howard shouted.

"The station is on fire!" Francie added. She pointed. "That side. We've got to put it out before it spreads!" She shoved the gun into Forrest's hand and raced for the sink, grabbing a bucket. "Help me!"

Jack and Howard helped her fill buckets and they ran onto the porch to put the fire out. There didn't seem to be any of the men left on the property, but they had managed to find time to erect a cross in the ground of the station and set fire to it, along with the storage shed that was still blazing merrily away.

It took six trips with the buckets to put the fire out. Forrest had tried to help but Francie shoved him down into a chair. "You stay put!" she commanded fiercely and to her utter amazement, Forrest simply nodded and stayed still.

When the fire on the building was out, they turned their attention to dousing the fires on the cross and the shed. She noticed for the first time that Howard and Jack were also hurt and bloody. But they refused to stop their work until the fires were completely extinguished.

"You must all go to the hospital!" Francie exclaimed. "Get your brother and get in the truck. I will drive you. You need medical attention immediately."

As they went inside, Howard and Jack to help their brother and Francie to look for the keys, Forrest spoke up.

"Floyd Banner is a dead man," he hissed angrily. He glared at Jack. "I don't want to hear nothin' else about it, either!"

"It couldn'ta been Floyd, Forrest!" Jack protested anyway. "He respects our business deal, he wouldn't –"

"That asshole James was his man, right?"

"Yes," Jack admitted, abashed.

"Then it's his responsibility!" Forrest stumbled a little and Howard righted him. They hobbled out to the truck and got inside, Jack groaning from his own injuries and Forrest growling against the stab wound in his side. Howard had a horrible gash on his head that wouldn't seem to stop bleeding but nonetheless looked at Francie.

"Are you sure you're all right to drive, honey?" he asked.

"Yes," Francie said firmly. "Now get in!"

"That son of a bitch Banner set us up," Forrest said. "Rollins must have got to him, must have paid him to do it. That fucking bastard is a dead man!"

The two brothers exchanged a look but kept quiet, knowing that there wasn't much they could say when Forrest was in such an angry state. Francie wondered how much of that was true. She didn't know anything about Floyd Banner but it had sounded like they'd had a fair business partnership. But it had to have been common knowledge that the Bondurants and the Banner crime family worked together. And Banner _was_ a criminal. Loyalty meant nothing when money was involved. And she knew that Rollins had plenty of resources to help get the Lattimores that much closer.

A shudder went through her as she sped along to the hospital. If the Lattimores were this desperate to get to her, desperate enough to pay a mob family to come after her, she didn't stand a chance. And now the Bondurants had gotten hurt because of her – something she had _known _would happen. Something she never wanted to happen.

She made a decision. As soon as she was able, she would leave them. And the thought of leaving Forrest broke her heart, but the thought of him dying because of her actions pained her worse. She set her jaw as she pressed the pedal to the floor. There was no way she would let this man that she loved get hurt worse because of her.

She glanced into the rearview mirror and met his eyes, though he was unaware she was looking at him.

If it killed her, she wouldn't let anything else happen to him.


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: Happy Monday, y'all. Here's another one - we're closing in on the end here soon. Please forgive typos - I'm in a hurry as seems to be my M.O. these days. I will clean later. If you're curious I did clean the last chapter and added a couple things. Nothing life-changing so if you don't feel like re-reading I won't be mad :-) Thanks to those of you who left me well-wishes in your reviews or PMs - I really appreciate it :-) I'm doing a little better today, so your good vibes must have worked. Love you all :-***

**Chapter 23**

Francie jerked awake to the feeling of a hand on her shoulder, shaking her gently. She hadn't had any idea that she had fallen asleep, and the sudden sharp movement her body involuntarily made reminded her that she was still at the hospital, sitting in a very uncomfortable wooden chair. Pain spasmed through her neck and shoulders and she knew she was going to have a terrible crick in her neck that would last for days.

She glanced up and Doctor Nelson smiled gently down at her. "You awake there, little lady?"

She nodded and covered her mouth to stifle a yawn. "Yes. Please forgive me, I hadn't intended to fall asleep."

"It's late, it's all right," the doctor replied. "Woulda sent you home but Forrest insisted you stay where he could be near you."

"How is he?" Francie asked, suddenly anxious. "How are they?"

"Oh, fine. They took some flesh wounds, is all. Though I did have to stitch up that nasty gash in Forrest's side. Looks like whoever stuck him got him good. They're resting a little just now."

"What time is it?" Francie asked, feeling disoriented. "How long have we been here?"

"Just a few hours. It's just after one in the morning. These stubborn bastards –" Doc Nelson covered his mouth. "Excuse me. These stubborn fellows should have stayed overnight here for their comfort but Forrest won't hear of it. He said they'd be stayin' just long enough to get patched up and then they'd be on their way. You've been for about an hour now."

The sound of a raised, annoyed voice met their ears. _Howard_, Francie thought. More than likely arguing with a nurse.

"I don't give a good goddamn!" she heard him shout suddenly. "I want my pants back!"

Francie cringed and turned back to Doc Nelson, who did not look amused. "You're going to have three bears on your hand here soon, I'm afraid," he said with a frown. "They don't take well to medical attention, apparently."

"It's not that," Francie sighed. "They – they're just preoccupied. That's all. Forgive them for their rudeness."

"Just don't want 'em givin' you a hard time," the doctor said. Francie smiled a little and shook her head.

"They won't. Please, Doctor – can I see them?"

"I'm having them brought out now – we're releasing them. Against my orders," he added pointedly. "But Forrest insisted on it. Just make sure they rest, and give them these." He handed her a brown paper sack filled with several pill bottles and a slip of paper, indicating what, when, and how many each brother should take of his prescription. "There's penicillin to ward off any infection and some painkillers."

Just then, the three brothers, flanked by a few fluttery nurses, strode down the hall toward her. _Limped_, Francie amended, frowning. Forrest walked with a hand to his side, Jack had a multitude of facial contusions and had two cracked ribs, and Howard was limping from a bullet having grazed his left buttock. All three of them looked enormously annoyed.

Howard and Jack, for their part, attempted to compose their faces into calmer lines when they caught sight of her. Forrest just looked at her with the same coldly angry look he'd worn since he'd gotten into the truck.

"Best get back to the station," he said in a clipped tone to his brothers. "I will drive."

"The station?" Francie repeated, aghast. "Have you lost your mind? We were all just –"

"Hush your mouth," Forrest interrupted, glancing at the doctor and the nurses, who were openly listening to their conversation. He reached out and took hold of Francie's arm. "Thank you, doctor. We'll be on our way now. Send me the bill to settle up later."

"Yes, no worry or hurry," Doc Nelson replied. "Take care of yourselves and come by if you need anything."

Forrest led the way outside, pulling Francie with him. He waited to say anything until they were all in the truck, Jack and Howard in the bed and the window at the back of the cab opened.

"No, I haven't lost my mind," Forrest finally said to Francie.

"I think you have," she insisted. "We were just attacked at the station, Forrest. They know who you are and where you live. They blew up your alcohol."

"Not all of it," Howard replied jauntily.

She ignored him and continued to speak to Forrest. "Why put yourself in their way again?"

"First of all, I have a damn business to run," Forrest replied in a clipped tone. "And those peckerwoods wouldn't try to come back again so soon. We just need to reinforce the doors and windows and if we stay closed for a few days, we stay closed. Long enough to get you out of town." He paused, staring ahead out of the windshield. "As soon as possible."

The rational part of Francie's mind understood that he was correct, that if she was to have any chance at survival, she would clear out of Virginia as soon as she got the chance. But the feminine, emotional part of herself, the one that belonged to him, was wounded. She wasn't sure what it was that she was hoping for, but she was disappointed that he seemed to be set on her going away forever.

_Don't be so foolish_, she thought. _You're a danger as long as you stay here._

She abandoned her argument and lapsed into silence, leaning away from him and looking out her window for the rest of the ride back to the station. It was just after two when they arrived back at the station. The heap that had been the storage shed was a still-smoking pile of ash, and the cross was still erected, if blackened and charred now. Jack ran for it angrily and shoved it, and it toppled over into the hard packed dirt and broke.

"Get inside now," Forrest said to his baby brother. "Ain't no sense in re-injuring yourself."

Once inside, they discovered the two bodies of the men Francie had shot earlier. They all stared down at them, and Francie's stomach roiled a little – not at the thought that she'd killed another two men, but that she wasn't particularly upset about it.

"Forgot to say thank you, Miss Francie," Howard said suddenly. "Had you not come down and shoot these two bastards, we might not've made it."

"Yeah," Jack spoke up. "You saved us, Miss Francie."

Francie waved them off, embarrassed and disturbed. She caught Forrest's eye. He gave her the slightest of nods, then turned to his brothers. "Burn these two fuckers for all I care." His brothers nodded and moved to grab the man she's shot through the back. Mercifully, he was facedown, but as Jack and Howard knelt next to his body, preparing to flip him over, Howard stopped Jack with a hand and hesitated, glancing up at Forrest. His younger brother took the hint and turned, touching Francie's elbow lightly.

"Might want to turn yourself around, just now," Forrest said calmly, and Francie didn't need to be told twice. She whirled on her heel and faced the front door to the station, trying to ignore first the dragging noise of his body being pulled along the floor, and then the thumping noise that his head made as he was pulled down the back steps and out into the yard, away from the house. Jack and Howard came back in for the other man, and they had dragged him only about five feet when he suddenly groaned aloud.

Forrest stepped closer to the body and Francie whirled around in surprise. The man on the floor was mumbling. "What the hell you say?" Forrest asked him.

"Help me!" the man tried again, louder this time. "Please. Bitch shot me in the fuckin' leg –"

"Meant to hit you in the head," Forrest interrupted, leaning down and forcing the man roughly onto his back. He whimpered as he was moved. "Unfortunate sleight of hand that left you with a hole in your leg. Who are you?" Forrest snatched a white Klan hood off the man's head. "'Sides one of these clowns."

"W-William," the man gasped. "William Adamson."

"And who do you work for, William Adamson?" Forrest went on, using that deadly quiet tone that Francie had long since recognized as highly dangerous.

"I-I don't know," he said. "I truly don't. Some man reached out, said he needed a job involving some nigger-bitch who tried to kill some white man in New Orleans, said they needed her back. Said they'd pay well, and they did. Said that we was to burn down the station and kill the Bondurants." He licked his lips and his gaze fell on Francie. "Said that we could have fun with the bitch before we brung her back."

A cracking noise tore through the room and the man's head was snapping back into the wood floor, the back of Forrest's fist hovering the air just above him. He glanced up at Francie, then over at his brothers.

"Let's get this one outside," he said lightly. "I don't think his talk is proper for a lady's ears." He rose and watched as his two brothers struggled to lift the wounded man. He began to beg with them, to plead for his life. Forrest shut the back door after them after holding up a hand, indicating he'd be along.

"Why don't you go upstairs and get to bed," Forrest said to Francie, and it was not a request or an expression of concern for her well-being. It was an order couched in a gentle tone. "You must be exhausted."

"What are you going to do?" Francie whispered back. "To that man?"

Forrest glanced at her, then at the floor. "Get on upstairs now," he said quietly.

Francie hesitated. "Forrest –"

"Go," he said sharply. "Don't make me tell you again."

Francie stared at him, open-mouthed. Something had changed in him; he was being cold toward her, cold and distant. He could hardly look at her now, and made sure to keep a few feet of distance between them. This wasn't the same man she had been with the past two nights. This wasn't the man she had fallen in love with. This was some icy stranger in his place. She turned slowly and headed for the stairs without another word.

It took her another hour to fall asleep, because she could hear them with the man in the backyard. She didn't know what exactly they were doing, because she didn't have the courage to go look, but she could hear his muffled screams of agony, until, abruptly, they stopped.

:O:O:O:

Forrest slept late – for him – the next morning. It was the simultaneous sound of kitchen noises and the loud rumbling of an engine that woke him.

After they had dealt with little William Adamson and put him to bed permanently, and set fire to the two bodies, he and his brothers had taken to bed. Howard and Jack were sleeping outside, one on the porch and one in the bed of the truck to keep an eye on things. Forrest realized he could have given up his bed to one of his brothers and gone to sleep with Francie, but it just wouldn't have seemed right. Nor would it have been fitting – or acceptable to him – to allow one of his brothers to sleep upstairs across the hall from her. He knew that nothing would have happened, but the thought of any man who was not himself being near her made him inexplicably angry. So, he let them fend for themselves.

He could tell that she had noticed the way he was being coldly distant with her. She had tried to touch him when they'd arrived back at the station, putting her hand on his arm briefly, but he'd stepped away from her. And when she'd finally gone upstairs to her room, he could plainly see the hurt all over her face that he was being so cold with her.

Good. That was the idea, Forrest told himself firmly. No matter that it made his heart ache every time he looked at her, knowing he was the one causing her pain. In the end it would be fine. She would leave, she would live, and all would go back to something like normal.

He struggled out of bed, the stinging sensation in his side making him hiss with pain. He dressed quickly, peering outside and seeing a shiny black Model A parked outside. He hurried to the bathroom to splash water on his face and comb his hair, then moved down the stairs as fast as he could. He could smell coffee and bacon, making his stomach rumble, but he was more concerned with who the hell was showing up at his place at nine in the morning.

He got his answer when he laid eyes on a man leaning at the bar, politely chatting with Francie. His back was to Forrest, but he could see the sharp, tailored pinstripe suit, the shiny brand new oxfords, and the slicked back hair. There weren't many people who could afford such extravagant apparel, and those who could tended to be on the wrong side of the law in one way or another.

"Banner," he growled, and Floyd Banner very calmly and slowly turned around to face him, his fingers holding a cup of coffee with his pinky extended just slightly.

"Well, good morning, Forrest," Banner said politely. "How are you feeling this morning? I was in town and just stopped by to personally thank you for the large business transaction we had the other day, and for the very fair price that you gave me since I plan to upsell the shit out of it. I'll have some men coming by later to pick it all up. But the lovely miss Francesca here has been filling me in on your misfortunes as of recent."

"Francie, don't you say one more thing to this here son of a bitch," Forrest said furiously. Francie's bright blue eyes widened and she looked uncertainly between the two men.

"Why?" Banner seemed genuinely confused. "Why am I son of a bitch? We were having a perfectly nice chat, your lovely gal here and me."

"Talkin' of our misfortunes," Forrest grunted. "Seems to me like you know all about them misfortunes. 'Cause you plotted them."

"Just what are you accusing me of, Forrest?" Floyd asked calmly. He set his cup down in its saucer and pushed it carefully away.

"I ain't accusin' you of shit," Forrest spat. "I'm sayin' plain as I know how that you set me up. Now get away from her and get the hell out of this station!"

"I didn't set up a goddamn thing," Banner looked truly confused as he rose from his stool to stand in front of Forrest. "Forrest, I know you always kinda looked at me sideways, but me and your brother Jack have us a good partnership and dare I say, a friendship as well. I respect you and your family, and I would never turn my back on you. Now I don't know what it is your gettin' at, but I would never set you up to be hurt or killed."

"Some of your men came here a handful of nights ago," Forrest said, trying to control the anger in his voice. "The night they come to place the big order you wanted. One of your men, James, started trouble with Francie here. I told him to get the hell of my property. Then I see him back here last night with a bunch of Klansmen. Started a fight, burned down my storage shed and the 'shine I had here on the property. You telling me you had nothing to do with that?"

"James is a young piece of greedy shit," Banner sighed. "That young man has been looking to better-deal me since the day I hired him. I've been meaning to let him go, and I've been keeping an eye on him to make sure he behaves. But he does quite a bit on his own, things I am not privy to. He gets the jobs I need done, done, and beyond that I don't ask any questions. Perhaps I should have."

"Perhaps," Forrest said coldly, glaring at him.

Banner lifted his hands in the air. "Listen, Forrest," he said. "James has been an excellent worker for me. As I said, he's gotten done every job I've given him, in fact sometimes he even goes above and beyond a little. If he wasn't so shifty I'd probably give him some real responsibility in my business. Men like him, shifty or not, are hard to come by. But you know what?" He shrugged his shoulders. "You and your brothers are more important to me, so here's what I'm gonna do. You want revenge? This kid is supposed to be meetin' me today to let me know when he gets word from our men that the load got picked up. Come to think of it, he would have been out there himself but he called me this morning to say he put someone else on it because he wasn't feeling well from last night. He probably knows if he comes face to face with you it'll be his last act on earth. After – _after – _my part of the business transaction is complete I'll let you have him. You do what you need to do, I look the other way and I find some other enterprising young man to take his place." He lifted his eyebrows. "You take my meaning?"

Floyd Banner was making it very plain that he would help set up one of his own presumably loyal men in order to allow Forrest to extract whatever information he could get and then kill him. Forrest clenched his fists. "Yeah."

"I don't know what's going on," Banner said, "but I'm happy to help how I can. I can put some feelers out into the streets and see who it is that's gunning for you and why."

"Know why," Forrest replied. "Some dirty sons of bitches are after her."

"Her?" Banner looked confused, and glanced over at Francie who was quietly drying some dishes. "But why?"

"She got into some stuff back where she come from," Forrest said carefully. "And whoever it is that's on her bad side ain't lettin' it go."

"Well, I can find out who," Banner insisted.

"I know who," Francie spoke up. "It's a family by the name of Lattimore, from New Orleans. They've hired a Detective, a man named Rollins, to come after me. He must have found some – as you put it – enterprising young men willing to help him."

"Rollins, you say?" Banner repeated. "Hm. I don't know a Rollins, but I'll see about getting some information on him. Perhaps I can find his whereabouts for you." He looked at Forrest and nodded. "I am on your side, my friend. To prove it, you can come to the train depot where I'm supposed to be meeting him. He'll be waiting for word from some of our other men who will be out wrapping up the pick-up of the order later this evening; I believe Jack is out at the still as we speak getting things packed up. James is supposed to meet me when everything is all set, and then you can do whatever you need to, as I said."

Forrest studied the man carefully through narrowed eyes, then nodded at last. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't fight the feeling that Banner was being square with him now. "All right," he said. "Umm. I'm gonna go out to the still, give Jack a hand. I'll be waitin' at the depot after that." Banner nodded and extended his hand. After a moment, Forrest slowly reached out and clasped it.

"You'll have your revenge," Banner said simply. He reached for his hat. "If you'll excuse me, I've got some other business to attend to just now. I'll see you a little bit later." He turned to Francie and bowed gallantly. "And thank you, miss, for the lovely breakfast and coffee. I wish you nothin' but the best and hope to see you soon."

Francie nodded politely at him. Forrest walked Banner outside, waiting on the porch until the man had gotten into his car and driven off. Then he turned and headed back inside. He walked into the kitchen, and saw that Francie had put together a plate of eggs, bacon and toast for him, as well as a fresh cup of coffee. She brought it to the table silently, then turned and headed back to the sink to finish washing and drying the dishes that remained.

"Umm," Forrest grunted uncomfortably. "Thank you." He glanced at her out of the corners of his eyes and watched her nod slightly. "After this, you're comin' with me out to the still, but you're gonna have to wait in the car. I need to go see about that order, but I ain't leavin' you here all by yourself."

Francie simply nodded again. She seemed to be beyond the point of arguing now, and Forrest wasn't sure he liked it. He realized he missed the way she always had to try to fight him down. He wanted to say something else, something meaningful.

"Best get your bags packed, too," was what he came up with. "When this is all said and done, I'm taking you to the train depot to get you on out of here."

Finally she stopped her task and turned to stare at him. Her eyes were wide and full of hurt at his words and for a moment he froze, wondering if she was going to say something about it. He realized that part of him almost wanted her, needed her to beg to stay with him so he could let her. Because he didn't want to let her go, not at all.

But his heart plummeted a little inside his chest, even as his brain was satisfied at her reasonableness. "I'll pack now," she said, her voice tight, and walked out of the room, leaving him alone with his cooling breakfast. His hand was wrapped around his cup so tightly he could have cracked it.

_It's for the best_, he repeated to himself, over and over. He gritted his teeth. _Don't matter that it hurts. It's what she needs._

For the second time in his life, he felt his heart starting to break.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

Francie sat in the cab of Forrest's truck at the still. She leaned her head against the door frame, enjoying the breeze gusting through windows, lifting tendrils of curly black hair that had escaped her knot and tossing them around her cheeks and neck. She had been there for a few hours, watching Forrest, Jack, Howard, and some other men packing and loading jars of moonshine and apple brandy in scores of wooden crates, to be loaded into several trucks for Floyd Banner. Forrest had counted each individual jar and then each individual crate, making notes in his ledger as he barked orders at the other men. Though the day was cool, all of the men had worked up a sweat from the heavy lifting and repetition of the work. Forrest's sleeves were shoved up to his elbows and his shirt clung damply to his back. His thick forearms flexed with sinewy muscle as he lifted crates. His muscular back tensed and strained under his shirt.

Though Francie felt confused and heartsick where it concerned Forrest, she couldn't stop a rush of blood gushing through her body straight between her legs, causing her to become slightly breathless and moisture to pool between her thighs. Everything about Forrest was purely masculine; his strength, his stature, his decisiveness, his fearlessness. And it all made her weak, even now, when he was treating her like a stranger. Her body yearned for his touch again, but her mind understood that this coldness and this distance, heartbreaking though it was, would make their separation that much easier.

She tore her eyes away from him and leaned back against the seat, closing her eyes. She was still tired from their late night and all the excitement contained therein. And the fear, the constant, nagging, endless worry that each moment might be her last, was completely draining. She dozed off, slipping easily into a dreamless sleep as her body clamored for rest. She woke what felt like a few moments later when the feeling and sound of the door opening and slamming jostled her awake. Forrest was climbing into the cab next to her, while Jack and Howard climbed into a different car. Francie blinked her eyes, glancing around. All of the trucks with loaded crates were driving off. She knew now the time had come for the Bondurants to meet Banner at the train depot and – _handle _ – James.

And also, the time had come for her to leave.

She glanced down at the suitcase at her feet as Forrest started the engine. "Umm," he began. "Sorry that took so long."

"It's fine," she replied.

"Be at the train depot in a few minutes," he added.

Francie swallowed hard. She knew that Forrest wasn't a man to make grand or romantic overtures, and he would most likely let her leave without saying anything in reference to the time they had shared together. As though it had meant nothing at all to him. Her eyes burned and she quickly turned to look out the window lest he see any tears slipping down her face. She didn't want him to know how much this was hurting her. How much he was hurting her.

The ride to the depot was, as she expected it would be, silent. He pulled up and Francie noticed there were no other cars yet, but she assumed that all the parties to be directly involved would be here shortly. She also noticed that Forrest, and behind them Jack and Howard, parked in an area that was hidden by some dense foliage. Should James happen to arrive first, he wouldn't see them and run off. She could see why this place had been chosen for a meeting spot – it was remote and there was hardly ever anyone here.

Forrest cleared his throat again. "Umm," he said. "You ain't leavin' from here. I'm gonna have Jack drive you to Roanoke. You'll stay there until you can leave on a midnight train. Here." He pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket and counted off two hundred dollars and handed them over. "Buy your ticket then get yourself a room, even if it's only for a few hours. Stay there until your train is scheduled to leave. This, plus what you got saved from workin' should be enough to get you by for a while. And I don't want to hear nothin' about it," he added sternly.

Francie dully accepted the money. "Thank you," she replied quietly.

He glanced at her, almost surprised that she had so willingly accepted the money he'd given her. Finally he nodded as though satisfied with her willingness to accept his help. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back, turning his attention to waiting for James and Floyd Banner patiently. Francie couldn't help wondering what was going through his mind. Was he plotting how the execution would go? Was he thinking back to all that James had done to get himself angry and riled up? He looked calm enough.

Francie leaned her head against the doorframe again and looked away, but began taking deep, silent intakes of breath through her nose. As always, she could smell Forrest's unique, heady combination of aromas and she wanted to be able to remember it for as long as possible before he one day faded from her mind and her heart – if that would be possible.

After a while, the sound of a car pulling up ahead met their ears and Forrest sat straight up alertly, staring intently through the windshield of the truck. Floyd Banner was climbing out of the car. He lit up a cigarette and began to pace. Forrest chewed his lip, then leaned out of his window, waving his brothers to join him at the truck. After a moment, they gathered outside Forrest's window.

"Bastard is gonna be here any minute," he said. "I don't want Francie to see nothin' that's gonna happen. Jack – why don't you load her up in that car of yours and hit the road to Roanoke."

Jack immediately looked annoyed. "Damn, Forrest, how come I never get to participate? No offense, Miss Francie, this don't have nothin' to do with you."

"Jack," Forrest said, his tone quietly reasonable, and yet full of warning that it wouldn't stay that way. "Me and Howard have a bit more experience with this, and we need someone to drive Francie to the train depot. Now, don't let's get to arguin' about it. You just do what you're told, now, you hear."

"Can't let the baby get his hands dirty," Howard added, hauling Jack into his side and rubbing his knuckles over his scalp.

"Aw, fuck you, Howard," Jack mumbled, shoving away from him and fixing his two older brothers with a glare. He swallowed and composed his face into gentler lines as he glanced over at Francie. "Miss Francie, you stay put. I'll come around to you now."

He opened her door and helped her out, then grabbed her suitcase. He started off toward his car. Francie paused between the truck and the Model A. She looked at Howard.

"Howard, it was very nice to meet you, and I thank you for all you have done for me," she said quietly. She held out her hand, intending to shake, but Howard grabbed her hand and pulled her toward him before enveloping her into a hug.

"Take care of yourself, Miss Francie," he murmured in her ear. "We'll all miss you."

She pulled back slightly and looked up into his face, clenching her jaw to try to keep tears at bay. She slid her eyes to Forrest, who was looking down at his lap. As though he felt her eyes on him, he glanced up. They held each other's gaze for a moment.

"Goodbye, Forrest," she managed to say finally. He seemed to grit his teeth at her words, but he pulled his eyes away, staring straight ahead.

"Goodbye," he replied.

She knew she would lose control over the tears she contained in her eyes if she stayed a moment longer, so she gave Howard's arms a final squeeze and felt his hands reluctantly drop from her waist. Jack was waiting for her at his car, her suitcase safely stowed in the backseat. He gave her sad, understanding smile and opened her car door for her.

"See y'all bastards later," he called grumpily to his brothers, then climbed in behind the wheel. He cleared his throat and glanced over at Francie. She saw with a hand pressed to her mouth, staring down at her lap. He reached over to pat her free hand awkwardly.

"It'll be all right, Miss Francie," he said, trying to comfort her. "This is – this is for the best. Don't worry about him. Me and Howard – we'll make sure he's okay."

Francie felt a brief moment of regret for the boy, seeing the startled, helpless look on his face when she burst into tears.

:O:O:O:

Forrest watched Jack drive off in the rearview mirror, his chest tightening so much he felt, for a moment, that he couldn't breathe. He clenched his jaw hard enough to crack teeth and took a few harsh breaths in and out of his nose.

"Coulda let her stay, y'know," Howard drawled lazily from where he still stood, leaning against the window. He unscrewed a lid on a jar of corn and took a healthy swig. "Didn't have to send her away. We coulda figured it out."

"How?" Forrest growled, angry at being read by his older brother so easily. "Please explain to me how that could have happened, Howard, when she has the fuckin' Ku Klux Klan as hired mercenaries after her. How would I have kept her here and kept us all alive?"

"I'm just sayin', we coulda figured somethin' out," Howard repeated, completely unfazed by his younger brother's anger. "'Cause I can see your broken heart on your face plain as day."

"You can't see a goddamn thing," Forrest replied, even more annoyed now than before.

"I can see that woman changed you," Howard went on calmly. "I can see that even though you're still a grumpy, sour bastard on the outside that woman changed you and touched you. So much that I can _see_ it Forrest. I can see it." He took another swig. "And you'd let a woman like that walk out of your life?"

"It's the only way to keep her safe," Forrest said. "And besides that, wasn't it _your_ ass sayin' all along it was a mistake to bring her to the station and that I didn't know what I was gettin' myself into bringin' her there?"

"I couldn't see then what I see now," Howard said earnestly. "And I see you're headed straight into a big ol' pile of misery and lonliness if you let that woman leave."

"Already left," Forrest said. "And it don't matter anyway. I'd rather be miserable and lonely than have her be dead. 'Cause if she _was_ dead, I'd still be miserable and lonely. Now, shut up about all that. James is here."

He slipped out of the truck, shutting the door quietly and thanking the Lord for the distraction so he didn't have to continue having this annoying conversation with his brother anymore. His mind immediately blocked everything out, intent on nothing but the man speaking to Floyd Banner now. He and Howard approached silently, and Forrest held up a hand, bringing them both to a stop.

"…cases all loaded and on their way," James was saying. "Sounds like Skip and Punch got everything taken care of with them Bondurants."

"What's your problem with them, again?" Banner asked carefully. "Seems like you get mighty antsy whenever their names come up. They're some of my finest suppliers, you know."

"Nothin' at all," James was saying. "Just glad to be gettin' out of this God-forsaken town, is all. They ain't been real hospitable."

"What's all them bruises all over you?" Banner went on. "Meant to ask who rearranged your face."

James rubbed a hand gingerly over his swollen jaw. "Bar fight, is all."

"I see," Banner replied. Forrest watched him glance slightly over his shoulder and jerk his head. It was time. He and Howard stepped out of the clearing and onto the wooden platform of the depot, their heavy boots thudding ominously as they walked up behind him. James turned quickly and his eyes went wide as he saw the two older Bondurants approaching. His eyes shifted quickly between the brothers and Banner.

"What is this?" he gasped, backing up. He looked at his boss. "M-Mr. Banner!"

"Son, you made your bed, now you lie in it," Banner replied, putting his hands on his hips. He pointed at Forrest. "You put your hand on this man's woman, then you disobey his direct order that you _not_ return to his property, and then you attack him in his own home and set fire to his stock. I'd say you got what's comin' to you."

"I-I was just doing a job!" James went on, still trying to back away. "I got hired by someone, I was just doin' what they told me!"

"And that was where you also fucked up," Banenr went on. "You don't work for no one but me. I don't care what business they are in, you work for Floyd Banner, you _only_ work for Floyd Banner!" He glanced at the two brothers. "Have at him, fellas."

Forrest's only thought as he reached out and grabbed James by his face was that he wouldn't die too quickly.

:O:O:O:

With a shaking hand, Francie took the train ticket to New York that the booth attendant held out to her. Taking it meant closing this short, odd, harsh, but beautiful chapter in her life, and she didn't know if she was quite ready for that.

Forrest had told her that after she got her ticket, she needed to get a boarding room to stay in until it was time to leave, someplace safe and secure while she waited to sneak out of the state in the dead of night. But she wasn't ready to say goodbye to Jack yet, who had waited patiently for her to buy her ticket and then see her to her room before returning to Franklin.

She gave him a little shaky smile as she turned to face him. "How about a last meal with me?" she asked. "Late lunch or an early supper before you head back."

"Well, of course, Miss Francie," Jack said warmly, immediately holding his elbow out to her. "I believe I saw a diner around here somewhere."

They walked to a small diner nearby and took seats at a booth. For the next couple hours, they ate sandwiches, drank coffee, and talked. Francie was desperate to avoid any subject concerning Forrest so she and Jack spoke mostly of his plans for the future, including marrying Bertha, where he wanted them to settle down, how many children he wanted to have.

"I don't even care if I have any boys!" he exclaimed, then thought about it. "Well, just one boy at least to carry on the family name. That's important. But all the rest, they can be girls. I love girls. Women, that is," he added hastily. "I-I think a lady is God's most precious gift to man. I'd love to have me a bunch of little girls."

"So, one boy and nine girls?" Francie repeated with a smile.

"That's about the long and short of it," Jack replied with a laugh. "How about you, Miss Francie? How many little ones do you want?"

It occurred to Francie that in order to have "little ones" she'd need a husband, and currently she was all out of prospects for that. There was only one prospect that she desired, and he'd kicked her out of his life, so that was out the window. _Didn't kick you out_, she thought, admonishing herself for her bitterness. _It was the only way and you know it._

The same thought seemed to occur to Jack because he reddened and cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, Miss Francie," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to say nothin' to upset you."

"It's all right, Jack," she said, quietly reassuring. "I always wanted two children. One boy and one girl, with the boy being older. I wanted to name him after my father, Beauregard. He was a good man."

"And the little girl?" he asked. "What would you have called her?"

Francie smiled a little wistfully. "Either Savannah, after my favorite city in the South," she replied, "or Leticia. After my mother."

Jack smiled. "Both are lovely names. But wouldn't you let your husband have a say?" Realizing he'd done it again, Jack's blush deepened even more. Francie ignored it.

"I suppose," she said. "It would depend on if I liked his ideas for names or not." She was pleased when he laughed a little. Despite the coffee she'd drunk, she couldn't help stifle a small yawn. It was almost six o'clock now, she was surprised to discover. She and Jack had been chatting at each other for two hours. That meant she could take a nice long nap and wake up in plenty of time to board the train.

Jack noticed her yawn and immediately rose, heading to the counter to pay their tab before she could make a move. He returned to the booth and assisted her to her feet, then offered her his elbow again and strolled out of the diner with her on his arm and her suitcase in his free hand. The station was much busier now than it had been before, but Francie couldn't tell if it was a late evening influx of travelers, or outbound ones. All she knew was that it had picked up considerably since they'd arrived in the late afternoon.

"You are really quite the gentleman, Jack Bondurant," Francie noted with approval. "Who taught you such nice manners, if you lost your mother so young?"

"Well, just about all the women in the County," he said with a laugh. "Growin' up it wasn't nothin' to let out a belch in public and then get swatted by six or seven pocketbooks on your way home. But my mama, you know, even though I lost her young I remember her always sayin' she wanted her boys to grow up and be gentlemen just like our daddy was. Boy, they was in love with each other, my parents was. I ain't never seen nothin' quite like them since. Except –" He broke off and shook his head, flustered. "Nevermind."

"What is it?" Francie prodded, shaking his arm a little. "Except what?"

Jack cleared his throat and looked at her a little regretfully. "Well, Miss Francie, I was gonna say that I ain't never seen nothin' like it except for when you and Forrest would look at each other. My brother is a grumpy son of a bitch, if you'll forgive me, but every time I would look at his face when you were in the room, it would just sort of light up a little bit, almost like his heart was glowin' inside his chest and it would peek out his eyeballs or somethin' when they fell on you." He smiled sheepishly. "I'm sure that sounds awful dumb but it's the best way I can think to describe it." He glanced at her face sharply and noted that she was weeping again. "Aw, goddamn my mouth, Miss Francie," he said hastily. "There, I've gone and upset you again." He stopped them in their tracks and set her suitcase on the ground, yanking a handkerchief from his pocket and handing it over.

"It's all right, Jack, I'm not mad at you," Francie said tearfully. "I just – well, your brother came to mean quite a bit to me, and –"

She broke off mid-sentence, seeing a figure over Jack's shoulder moving slowly around the depot. It was a portly, well-dressed man with a thin mustache. He was looking around very slowly, sweeping his eyes from side to side as though he was searching for something. _Or someone. _For a moment everything went blurry and fear gripped her guts, making her feel like she might vomit.

"Miss Francie?" Jack asked, leaning down to peer into her face. "You don't look well a'tall. Let's get you to that room –"

Francie lowered her head quickly as Detective Rollins began to turn toward them. She turned her face away and laid her cheek against Jack's chest.

"That detective is here, Jack," she whispered harshly, grabbing his arms. "Pretend you are embracing me."

Immediately he put his arms around her in a hug. "Where?" he asked, his tone suddenly harsh and clipped.

"He's making his way through the depot now," Francie whispered back, burying her face against Jack's collar. "How in world did he know I would be here?" She risked a glance then buried her face again. "He is coming alongside your left."

Jack carefully began to turn her so that his back was toward the detective as he moved. "Don't worry, Miss Francie," he said calmly. "Just you tell me when he's out of sight."

After a few tense minutes, Francie lifted her head ever so slightly again and watched the back of the detective disappear into the crowd. "He's gone," she said finally.

"For now," Jack replied, then scooped up her suitcase and grabbed her hand. "Come on. You ain't gettin' on this train."

"What?" Francie gasped, hurrying along after him as he yanked her along toward the entrance to the depot. "What are you saying?"

"I'm sayin', you ain't gettin' on this train!" Jack repeated. "Not with that son of a bitch lurkin' around. You'll be dead before you even get out of Virginia." He glanced over at her, seeing her go white. "Not to scare you. But I ain't lettin' you get on that train."

"But your brother said –"

"Fuck what Forrest said," Jack replied, moving faster and tightening his grip on her hand. "He'd never forgive himself or me if I let you get on that train!"

They reached the car and Jack unceremoniously tossed her suitcase in the back before hopping into the cab next to her. Francie held up her ticket. It had cost fifty whole dollars, and it was all for naught since she was going to be boarding the outbound train to New York, departing at midnight. At least she had opted to spend her own money and not what Forrest had given her. She'd vowed she would only use that if it was absolutely necessary.

Before she knew it, they were speeding back toward Franklin County, Jack driving much faster than he had previously. He kept glancing at the rearview mirror as though checking to see if they were followed. Francie turned her head to look, herself, a few times, and saw no one behind them.

It was normally about an hour, give or take a few minutes, from Roanoke to Franklin County. However, with the way Jack was driving now, they'd be back at the station inside of forty-five minutes, she was sure. They were flying.

The ride was tensely silent, with Jack alternating between staring at the road and in the rearview the entire time. He was focused and quiet, and as much as the silence was twisting and tightening Francie's nerves, she thought it best she keep her mouth shut lest she disturb his concentration.

Night had fallen by the time they made it back, although they reached the station in record time. Jack made her stay put in the car while he got out and slowly paced from side to side, searching the road, waiting for some sign that they had been followed. Finally, he removed her suitcase from the backseat and opened her door for her. She followed him up the familiar wooden steps of the porch and walked in behind him when he pushed the door open.

The station was lit by a few lamps, and Forrest and Howard were sitting together at one of the small tables, a bottle of apple brandy between them. They looked up when Jack entered the room, and Francie's heart and stomach fluttered with nerves as Forrest's eyes fell on her immediately. He looked neither surprised nor unsurprised to see her standing there. He looked neither happy nor upset. He just looked.

"What's she doin' here?" His deep, velvety voice was rough, and though he kept his eyes on her, he directed his question at Jack.

At his words, Francie felt her heart sink.


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: Have a safe and happy 4th, y'all. Much love! Besos!**

**Chapter 25**

"Now, listen, Forrest," Jack said, holding up a hand. "It was the only thing to do. We seen that bastard detective that was comin' around before. He's in this state, and he's still very much interested in findin' her and doin' God knows what. I could not allow her to get on that train."

"He follow you back?" Howard exclaimed, jumping out of his chair and rushing to the window.

"No, he didn't follow me," Jack replied, annoyed. "Calm your fuckin' tits. I made sure of it." He looked at Forrest. "He was at the _train station_, Forrest. How in the hell could he have known we were takin' her there?"

Forrest kept his eyes on Francie, who was staring at the floor. "Someone must have seen you leave, or seen us at the depot or the still, or somethin', followed you, and alerted him. How long had you been at the station before you saw him?"

"Couple hours," Jack replied. "We stopped to get a bite to eat and then seen him when we was leavin' the diner. Sure, he coulda come up after us, after we got there. If he's got people on the street watchin' all of us."

Forrest felt a curious twinge of jealousy at hearing that his brother had shared a meal with Francie, then shook it off. "Well, we are gonna take turns keepin' watch on things tonight," he said lightly. "Make sure we don't run into any surprises. Jack, why don't you help the lady upstairs." He paused, then reached out to pat his shoulder as he passed. Jack looked at him in surprise. "You did good, little brother."

He was proud of his baby brother's action; he'd made the right call. At first Forrest had thought that some romantic notion had inspired Jack to bring Francie back, and for that he would have torn his brother a new asshole. But with that goddamn inspector sneaking around, Forrest had no doubt of Francie's fate had she gotten on the train. No doubt she would have arrived at her next stop with a wide, red smile at her throat. His own scar suddenly burned with itchiness at the thought.

They decided to split the night up into thirds and each take a shift while the other two rested. Forrest insisted on taking first watch, so Jack and Howard resumed their previous positions of sleeping on the bed of the truck and on the porch while Forrest sat on the roof of the station, occasionally walking across to the other side to get a full view of things. While he kept an eye on things, he thought about Francie. His heart had leapt involuntarily in his chest when he'd seen her; he couldn't deny that he was happy she was back. But what was there to be happy about, really? She would still be leaving, as soon as they could be sure it was somewhat safe. He thought about ways to make it safe. Maybe they could try to draw Rollins out, and then kill him and allow her to escape before the Lattimores came looking themselves.

He mulled over the possibilities for hours, with each one ending in a dead end. He could come up with a hundred ways to keep her there and eliminate the problem, and immediately come up with another hundred ways each plan could go wrong. It was all the same, ending with Francie either dead or leaving. The thought of either departure made his chest tighten. It was all the same – he would have to say goodbye to her one way or the other. He sat morosely until Howard came to relieve him. It was well after midnight now, so he went inside and up to his room, taking his rifle with him. There was no way he would be caught unawares. He just wouldn't; there was too much on the line. And, if truth be told, he was of a mood currently that made him welcome the thought of an intruder, so he could blast their skull apart and knock their head clean off their neck.

He ascended the stairs, rubbing a hand over his face tiredly. He looked forward to lying down and getting some rest; his body and mind were fatigued, and he felt rather melancholy. He moved lightly up the stairs, trying to avoid the wood squeaking under his weight, lest he disturb Francie. Then that thought almost made him snort. She was the heaviest sleeper in the world; it would take dynamite to wake her before a squeak of wood would do it. He half-smiled at the thought, and then it fell away just as quickly as it appeared. It didn't matter anymore; he needn't concern himself with thoughts of waking her. She wouldn't be around long enough.

A shadowy figure moving in the hall upstairs caught his attention and startled him, and before he knew what he was doing the rifle stock was pressed to his shoulder, the barrel pointed at the figure's face, his finger on the trigger, and he was preparing to blow the head off of whoever it was. Until the figure raised shaky, small hands into the air and a scared, sweet voice spoke his name.

"Forrest, it's me," the voice pleaded in terror. "Don't shoot."

Forrest let out a long breath, immediately lowering the rifle. He felt like he was seeing red and blowing steam out of his ears, he was so angry. "What the fuck are you doing out here?" he demanded harshly. "You're supposed to be in your room, goddammit, not out here creepin' around like a fuckin' child. I could have just killed you. You understand? I could have just blown your fuckin' head off!"

He wasn't aware that he was almost actually _hollering_ at her until she started to weep. Instantly regret filled him at the soft, heartbroken sound. He knew that she was weeping not because he had yelled at her, but because he'd been so mean to her lately, so cold and distant and shut off from her, that him speaking harshly to her after all she'd been enduring had broken her down finally. He watched as she leaned heavily against the wall and hunched over slightly, trying to shield her face as though she were ashamed of her display of emotion. She looked so small and frail; his heart cracked in his chest and remorse surged through him. He was an absolute bastard sometimes.

His body moved as though it had a mind of its own, without consulting his conscious mind at all. He crossed the short distance to her and grabbed her, yanking her small, shaking body against his and holding her tightly as his voice started speaking to her. It was his voice, but the words that came out of him were tender, gentle – not at all like himself. Who was this person speaking these things to her beyond his control?

"I'm sorry, honey," someone that couldn't be him whispered to her. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for it all. I shouldn't have said those things to you. I'm sorry for bein' such a lousy bastard to you." She was mumbling, trying to talk, her hands scrabbling at him. "I thought it'd be easier this way," he went on, suddenly unable to stop. "I thought if I acted distant and mean it would be easier to say goodbye. Christ, I was wrong. I was dead goddamn wrong." His gruff voice shook as he pulled away from her, one hand burying itself into her thick, curly black hair and the other gripping her waist. He searched her eyes pleadingly in the dim sliver of moonlight streaming across the hall from the window in his bedroom.

Her eyes glittered wetly up at him, the iris looking white in the silver light. Tears streaked down her face, and he noticed that she was wearing that short, sheer nightie she'd been in the first night he'd taken her body in love. His own body burst into fiery need at the sight and he pulled her close against his chest again, his hands trembling slightly.

"I couldn't take you to the depot myself," he whispered raggedly, hardly able to believe that he was still talking and about to share something deeply personal and private he never would have told anyone. "I was a coward, that's why I made Jack do it. I couldn't do it again, I couldn't let go of a woman I –" His voice caught and his hands tightened on her. It had to hurt, but she said nothing, and her face gave nothing away.

"You what, Forrest?" she whispered urgently, her voice shaking with tears. "You _what?_"

"I couldn't let go of a woman I was in love with," he confessed hoarsely. "Woman, what have you done to me?"

Her lips trembled, and if she was trying to give him an answer, he didn't want to hear it. He lowered his face to hers and took her lips in a hard, needy kiss, as though everything he needed to feel all right again was contained within her. He believed it was. Though it had only been a little more than a day since he'd tasted her lips last, it felt like an eternity and he realized how much he, his body, his soul, had missed her.

He pushed her back into the wall and tilted his head to take her mouth deeply. He tasted salt from her tears and kissed her harder, deeper. He felt her lips trying to frantically claim his but he wouldn't let her. All he wanted was to take and take from her. He couldn't slow down long enough to give. He pulled at her tongue with his lips, his hands buried in her thick, dark hair. He felt her hands gripping his head, pulling him closer. He wished their bodies could just melt together and into each other; only then would they be as close as he would prefer, as he needed.

He pushed his hips into hers and she squealed into his mouth, her hips immediately trying to grind back against his. He pulled away from her, breathing hard through his nose, taking her in. Her lips were swollen from his attack and her hands, her hot, shaking hands, grabbed at him and burned his skin through his clothes.

He swept her off her feet and carried her into his bedroom, shutting the door with his foot. A sense of déjà vu overcame him when he tossed her onto his bed and began to rapidly undress. He had done this very thing their first night together. She watched him with hooded eyes and he could feel her need radiating off her skin like heat. He yanked off his shirt and trousers, everything until he was left in his shorts. She leaned forward to yank them down herself, urgent and desperate now, and he looked down at her in that flimsy, sheer, short nightie that had almost driven him insane, thinking of her in it night after night. With a growl, he reached out and tore it from her body in one hard yank. It fell in ripped shreds to the floor and he moved over her, pushing her back and roughly pulling her thighs apart. He wasn't trying to be so rough, but need made his movements a little harsh. He paused for a moment to make sure he wasn't frightening her, but the way her hands were sliding against him, her mouth open and her eyes heavy with desire, he knew, could _sense _that she was right there with him.

He wanted to taste her, take his time with her, bring her off once or twice before taking her, but he simply couldn't do anything other than line himself up at her wet, warm entrance and push into her. She let out a sharp, high-pitched gasp of pleasure, her nails digging into his sides, and he couldn't move for a moment. She felt so good, _so good_ around him, tight and hot and wet, and he needed her, badly. He murmured her name hoarsely into her neck, feeling her tighten around him as she lifted her legs and pulled her knees back to her chest.

"Please," she begged in a whisper. He moved then, trying to be slow but unable to stop his hips from moving of their own accord, slamming into her with force. He had to have her this way, and from her shaking, gasping moans, he knew she needed it this way too. He stared down at her as he moved, and she gazed up at him. Tears leaked from her eyes, and he stopped immediately, thinking he was hurting her. Her fingers dug into him again. "Don't stop," she pleaded. "Don't stop." He leaned down to kiss her deeply once more, moving his hips until he built up to a strong, deep thrust. She whimpered into his mouth and he felt her tighten around him, until her whole body jerked and she cried out and her body trembled violently. She moaned out his name and something that sounded like _I love you_ and then he was coming apart, hip-deep inside her, shooting his hot, thick seed into her and teething her neck hard as he came.

They lay trembling together, their arms and legs entangled with each other and the quilt, and didn't speak for a long time. Francie's hands stroked the length of his back and he breathed into her neck, drawing in her scent. He lifted his head after a while and stared down into her face, smoothing her curls down.

"What were you doin' in the hall when I come up?" he asked gently.

"I was looking for you," she replied, a little sheepishly. "I had been asleep, brokenly, for a few hours and when I woke – I must have had a bad dream. All I wanted was to find you."

Fresh shame filled him then. She'd been seeking him for comfort, and when she had found him, he'd pointed a rifle at her face and then practically shouted at her and made her cry. He pressed his lips to her cheek, her jaw, her lips and her chin.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again. She lifted her head to quickly catch his lips and pulled back, bringing his head with her. For a few moments, they explored each other's lips and mouths, eyes open and looking into the other's. He moved his lips back across her cheek, down her neck and brushed them to the curve where her neck met her shoulder.

"What will happen, Forrest?" she asked, her eyes falling shut against the feeling of his lips on her skin. "I don't want to leave you again. Don't make me leave you."

"I don't know that we have a choice," he said gruffly as pain squeezed his throat. "I need you to be safe, Francie. I couldn't take it if something happened to you."

"I'm safe with you," she whispered, her hands pressing against him insistently. "Don't make me leave."

He didn't know how to answer her. He didn't want her to leave, but more than that, he wanted her to _live_. He was trying to find a way to explain it to her when she lifted her hips slightly, and her tight, wet walls slid over his softened member just the right way and made him hard again. She sucked in a soft breath at the feeling of him growing inside her, and grew even more wet. Forrest clenched his jaw as pleasure flamed through him.

"Make love to me, Forrest," she whispered. "Never stop. Please…"

With a fistful of her curls in one hand, a handful of bedding in the other, and a mouthful of her sweet flesh, Forrest lost himself in her depths, pulling them both down into the deceptive security of a long night feasting on each other.

When morning came, though, he didn't have a clue what would become of them.

:O:O:O:

Detective Rollins stared down at the pile of lumpy, bloody flesh dumped in the trees and brush behind Franklin County's poor, sad excuse for a train depot. Bile and distaste rose in his throat as he stared down at the body that had once belonged to James, that wretched young man who would do anything for a dollar.

It was clear that he'd been beaten to death, and if the gashes and tears in his skin were any indication, Rollins would guess that a set of brass knuckles worn by one violent, rancorous Bondurant brother would be the culprit for the violence.

"It looks like little Francie has herself an army, doesn't it?"

The voice startled Rollins out of his reverie and he turned over his shoulder, watching as a well-dressed, pale young man walked toward him slowly, limping ever so slightly. Thomas Lattimore had almost made a full recovery from his wound, although there had been some nerve damage done to his left side. He was not fully of the strength he had enjoyed prior to his getting shot, but Rollins suspected that rage played a big role in getting the young man up on his feet and moving around at all.

He moved slowly to Rollins' side and stared down at the dead body. "The man who did this," he began slowly. "He is _with_ the woman?"

"I believe so, from what I have observed and been told," Rollins replied.

"And he – he knows what she did? What she _is_?"

"It would seem that way," Rollins said. "She hasn't been particularly careful about minding her appearance as she was in New Orleans. If you saw her now you would hardly recognize her. She's allowed her skin to get darker; her hair to go curly. It's unmistakable."

"Pig," Thomas hissed, then spat on the ground as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. "Dirty, whorish pig. Let her fuck the Bondurant man. They can fuck each other for an eternity in hell for all I care once we are done with them." He turned away from the dead body and looked at Rollins. "It's in place now?"

"Yes," Rollins said smoothly. He much preferred dealing with the younger Lattimore than his mother, but Thomas had an annoying habit of needing to go over the details multiple times. "I paid an enterprising young man a certain sum of money, and he was happy to go back to that Floyd Banner to provide information as to my whereabouts. This young man will encourage Banner to set up a meeting with me – on the pretense of buying alcohol. Banner will try to set me up by contacting the Bondurants, but I'll be waiting with a small army of my own to ambush them." Rollins smiled indulgently, never failing to impress himself with his own genius.

"And while this is going on, I'll go to the station," Thomas said, a violent gleam in his eye. "And I'll find our little damsel in distress all by her lonesome. I'll shoot her right in her pretty fucking face before she even gets a word out."

"Now, just a moment," Rollins interrupted delicately. "We must ensure that the young woman doesn't accompany the Bondurants, or perhaps that they don't leave one of them behind to stay with her. All possibilities to consider."

"Then I'll take care of them all myself!" Thomas roared, rage contorting his face. "I don't care, Rollins – that disgusting pig-bitch is mine!"

"As you say, sir, as you say," Rollins said quickly, patting the air. "Please, don't rile yourself."

"If she does indeed come with them, or one of them is left behind, just make sure she is kept alive until I am there," Thomas said, gritting his teeth. "I take her life myself – no one else. Do you understand?"

"Ah, yes," Rollins replied. "I understand. No one kills her but you. The revenge is all yours, sir."

"I want to see the life go out of her eyes," Thomas said, a crazed look upon his face. "I want to see her blood. And I will have what she took from me, what I was saving for our wedding night." A demented smile twisted his lips. "What it is that has Mr. Forrest Bondurant so willing to be her shield." He nudged Rollins in the side with an elbow. "Must be something awfully sweet between her thighs to keep a white man as her guard, eh?"

"Indeed, sir," Rollins said, bowing his head. "Now, come. We should return to the boarding house to await notice that the plan has been put into motion."

As they walked, Rollins thought about what Thomas had said, had insisted upon. No one would touch Miss Fontaine but him; he would be the one to end her miserable life. Rollins flexed his jaw, still sore these days from his own go-round with the brass knuckles. He clenched his fist.

Perhaps he would adopt the same ideology for the middle Bondurant brother. The bullets he would be filled with would come from no one's tommy gun but his own, and he would take sweet, sweet joy in seeing Forrest's blood and watching the light go out of his eyes. The thought cheered him considerably. Rollins slung an arm about Thomas's shoulders.

"My boy," he said jovially, "in some ways, you are a man after my own heart."


	26. Chapter 26

**A/N: Hey guys! Hope you all had a safe and happy holiday weekend. All limbs and extremities in tact, right? We are getting closer and closer...please read, review and enjoy.**

**Chapter 26**

Francie awoke the next morning as the sun streamed across the floor and over the bed, warming her skin with its intense rays. She realized she was alone in Forrest's bed as she struggled to sit up. She wrapped the quilt around her naked body, eyeing the pieces of what had once been her nightie strewn around on the wooden floor and thinking about how they had gotten there.

Forrest had been almost an entirely different man the night before. He had still been the same strong, familiar body she was used to, but the shell that he labored under, the protective covering he donned and the distance at which he kept himself from her and most other people had gone away in an instant. She was still slightly ashamed of her emotional weakness, but it had just become too much. The harsh, angry way he had spoken to her when he'd mistaken her for an intruder and pointed his rifle at her had made her truly believe in that moment that he no longer cared for her, and it had shattered her heart and her nerves, and she could do nothing but lean against the wall and weep.

She bit her lip and closed her eyes briefly as she thought of the way her heart had leapt and almost burst inside her chest when he dropped the rifle and rushed toward her. For an instant she had been terrified that he was going to hit her, as he moved toward her with such violence, but instead he was pulling her close, wrapping his arms around her body tightly and speaking to her in that strange, broken voice, saying things that she could hardly believe were coming from _him,_ Forrest Bondurant, one of the most frightening men in the South. One thing he had said stood out above everything else – he was in love with her.

For a moment, she hugged the quilt to her body and breathed in deeply. It smelled of cedar, smoke and spices – just like him. She shut her eyes tightly inhaled his scent, trying to implant every note of the fragrance on her senses and in her memory.

"Umm…good mornin'."

She turned quickly at the sound of his voice and saw him standing in the doorway. She'd been so wrapped up in her thoughts that she hadn't heard his boots coming up the stairs. He was holding a steaming cup in his hand and leaning against the frame of the door. She watched his eyes move over her and she realized that the quilt had slipped down her bare back. She pulled it up around herself a little more and smiled shyly at him.

"Good morning."

He pushed himself upright off the door frame and shut the door behind him, crossing the floor to the bed. He glanced at her torn nightie on the floor as he handed her the cup. The coffee's rich aroma wafted into her nose and she saw that it had cream and sugar in it just the way she liked it. She had never realized that he noticed the way she took her coffee before, but the simple gesture went straight to her heart. She took a sip; she couldn't have prepared it better or more to her liking herself.

He nudged the shreds of fabric on the floor with the toe of his boot. "Umm. Sorry 'bout that."

Francie bit her lip again as a rush of heat flew through her. She remembered the way he had simply reached out and yanked it off her body the night before, as though slipping it up over her head was just too time consuming a task, too much of an impediment that kept him from beholding and touching her naked flesh immediately.

"No need to be sorry," she replied.

In the sober light of day, Forrest seemed to have withdrawn into something resembling the cold shell of himself he had been up until last night. The frantic energy that had possessed him last night had gone away, and Francie felt fresh sorrow, doubt, and fear taking hold of her again. She hadn't really known what to expect, but she had hoped for some sign that last night hadn't simply been a fluke, a slip of the tongue borne of need for physical contact. She lowered her eyes to her cup, watching the steam curl up out of it, and wondered if she would have to go through the misery of the past days all over again. Suddenly she felt fingertips brushing the underside of her chin, gently imploring her to look up.

"Francie. Look at me."

She swallowed and lifted her eyes to his face, her heart starting to pound again, wondering what he was going to say. He reached down and took the cup from her hands and set it on his nightstand, then lowered himself to sit next to her on the edge of the bed. He reached out slowly and took her hand between both of his, and she couldn't have been more surprised than if he had slapped her.

"I meant what I said to you last night," he said quietly, his eyes on the floor. "I meant it all. I'm just tryin' to figure out a way to keep you here and keep you – and the rest of us – out of danger. I don't – I reckon I don't want you to leave any more than you want to."

"Oh, Forrest –" Francie started to say, but he quieted her with a gentle squeeze on her hand and continued to speak to the floor.

"It may come to pass that you just can't be here. I don't know what this damn Rollins is plannin' and I don't know how long this could take to fix. You might have to go away, for your own safety. If you do, I promise you – I will do my goddamned best to find you again, if it's the last thing I do on this earth." Finally, he lifted his pewter-blue eyes to her face. "I mean that. I can't – I can't have you anywhere in this world that ain't right here next to me."

Francie understood the effort that it took him to say those words to her. She wanted to leap into his arms, but instead she reached up to gently caress the side of his face, feeling his scruffy beard under her sensitive fingertips. She leaned forward and rested her forehead against the side of his neck, and a moment later felt his large, calloused hand stroke her back. It was better than any words they could say, this closeness; Francie could feel everything he couldn't say to her this morning in the simple touch of his hand. She pressed her lips to the pulse just under his jaw.

"I understand," she whispered. "And there isn't anywhere else I want to be. But if I have to leave, to keep _you_ safe, then leave, I shall. It will be the hardest thing I could ever do. But I would do anything." She lifted her head from his shoulder to look into his eyes again. "I would do anything because I do love you, Forrest." She knew he wouldn't say it back, and that was all right. She knew the truth.

In reply, he pulled her by the chin toward him and brushed her lips with his. His lips were warm and a little rough, and tasted of coffee. She slipped a hand to the back of his head to keep there, and sucked at his lips gently. She wanted to stay that way for as long as possible.

When their kisses began to grow more heated, faster and needier, he reached up to gently disentangle himself from her, wrapping one hand around her wrist and pulling it from his head gently. He sighed heavily, stroking his thumb down her lips, over her chin, and down the center of her throat.

"Wish I could stay right now," he said, his voice quiet but gruff from his unsatisfied need, "but I can't. I came up here to tell you also that me and my brothers are heading out right now."

"All of you?" Francie asked, surprised and a little alarmed. For all of them to leave meant that she would be alone. While she wasn't particularly concerned with that, she knew that there had to be something important occurring to cause all three brothers to leave, despite Forrest's standing order that she was not to be left alone.

"Yes. You stay inside the station. We're gonna lock up tight. You don't go outside for nothin'. Stay away from the windows if you can. I'm leavin' you my rifle. If someone breaks in and you can't get away, you shoot. Shoot first and ask questions later. I don't give a shit if it's Reverend Brown. If I ain't expectin' anyone, they ain't supposed to be here." He paused to consider his words. "If it's Reverend Brown, shoot him in the knee. Don't kill him. And if we ain't back by nightfall, I want you to go into my study. On the wall next to the desk, down by the floor, if you pull out one of the wooden slats, I keep a box of money hidden there. Take however much you want, pack your bags and get on the next train to New York tonight. You hear me?" She nodded hesitantly. "I mean it, Francie. Tonight."

"Where are you all going?" Francie asked. "How long will you be gone?"

Forrest hesitated, as though debating with himself whether or not to tell her the truth, or how much of it. Finally, he seemed to relent. "We got a call from Banner. Says he got wind that Rollins is in town and wants some liquor. Not sure if Rollins knows we all do business together, but he called us to come to his meeting. We're gonna ambush the sumbitch." His eyes gleamed coldly, and Francie felt nervousness flutter in her belly. She also felt a bit of relief, too – getting rid of Rollins was the key to finally being free from her past. But the idea of Forrest, Jack and Howard – men she'd come to love in different, special ways, men she'd come to consider, strangely, family – going off to an extremely dangerous and unstable situation made her chest tighten. Anything could happen – anything at all, and the worst thought of them all invaded her mind and took over.

"If something should happen to you –" she began shakily, then stopped when Forrest abruptly rose from the bed, startling her. He leaned down over her and held her face between his hands, looking her straight in the eye.

"Don't you start that shit," he warned. "Don't you start thinking that way. Ain't nothin' gonna happen to us that wasn't meant to happen. Besides," he added more gently, "ain't you ever heard the Bondurant legend? We can't die. So a few sumbitches with some guns don't mean a goddamn thing to me. I been shot more times than you can count on your fingers and toes, and I'm still standin'." He stroked her cheekbones with his thumbs and leaned down to kiss her.

"Where are you all headed?" Francie asked when Forrest pulled away. She placed her fingers around his wrists to keep his hands in place, not wanting him to stop touching her.

"'Bout an hour away from here."

She knew better than to ask again how long they would be; she understood now that there was no telling what sort of a situation they were walking into.

"Forrest!" Howard's voice floated up the stairs, sounding tense. "Time to go." Forrest glanced over his shoulder at the sound, then turned back to Francie, studying her face intently as though he were trying to memorize it. Finally, he stroked her cheek one more time and straightened, heading for the door and pulling it open.

Francie quickly rose to her feet, forgetting she was only covered by the quilt, and rushed out into the upstairs hall behind him. "Forrest," she said pleadingly, and he turned around to look at her, his eyebrows lifted slightly in question.

"Yeah," he said softly, though she knew he was impatient to leave.

_Tell me you love me,_ she thought. Instead, she whispered, "Kiss me goodbye."

He hesitated only a brief moment before crossing the hall toward her, pulling her body against his, sliding one hand under her hair to tightly fist her curls, and lowered his mouth to hers. His lips settled firmly against her mouth, as though he were trying to kiss away any lingering fear and doubt that remained in her mind. Though he made a very fair effort at doing so, she just couldn't quite let go of her worry.

"Have to go now," he murmured against her lips. He let his hand trail slowly from her hair as he stepped back. "I'll see you soon. Remember what I told you and don't open up for nobody."

Francie could only nod and stare at him, watching as he turned and walked down the stairs and out of the station with his brothers.

:O:O:O:

Forrest didn't want to talk more than necessary on the ride out to meet Floyd Banner. The location was about five miles outside Roanoke, further than Forrest expected. However, nothing would stop him from attending this little meeting.

Jack was driving, and Howard was in the bed of the truck where he generally preferred to be, with the three shotguns and ammunition. Forrest had his pistol tucked at his back and Jack's was in a holster at his ribs. They were all tense, but Forrest also felt a strange measure of calm. Things were going to be put right today, if he had any say in the matter. Then these bastards would let him and his family be, and he would be free to explore a new life with Francie, one that he realized he wanted very much.

He'd meant what he'd said this morning, that if it seemed there was no other way to keep her safe than to send her away, he'd do it, and she'd just have to comply for the time being. If for some reason something went awry, she knew where he kept his money. She could make a clean getaway and be safe until he could come after her to find her. Even if he was – _unable_ – to come after her, he felt peace at the notion that she'd be safe.

As he stared out the window at the passing scenery, losing himself in his thoughts, he gave into an urge that had been plaguing him for some time. An urge he hadn't had since he'd been a child, one that he'd long ago dismissed as useless and silly.

He had the urge to pray.

_Dear Lord,_ he thought. _If I got any right to speak to You at all…I only ask that You keep her safe. I reckon I'd prefer it if You could allow me to live a little longer so I can be with her. But if for some reason You decide I've done enough bullshit down here on Your earth, and it's time to for me to leave, then I just want her to be all right in the end. Please, Lord. Take care of my gal._

He sent up another prayer of thankfulness that his brothers weren't mind-readers and settled back in his seat, waiting for the ride to be over. They reached the location that Banner had told him in almost precisely one hour, parking the truck about a half a mile away for safety's sake. The "meeting" was supposed to be held behind an old abandoned general store. The area was surrounded by trees, Banner said, but there was plenty of cover from anyone who might be driving past – like the sheriff.

They walked toward the store, off the dirt road to avoid being seen, and around the back of the general store. There was a small field, at the edge of which a forest began. They stole quietly through the field, not seeing anyone else in sight, and entered the forest. Banner had said that the meeting place was to be in a clearing next the edge of a stream to ensure maximum privacy. On his end, it would appear to provide cover and privacy for the illegal meeting. For the Bondurants, though – it was to ensure total seclusion as they righted some wrongs that had come into their lives recently.

They found the stream and began following it cautiously through the forest until they heard some voices. Forrest held up a hand to signal his brothers to stop for a moment, and peered through the trees. He saw Banner, a younger man, and the Detective Rollins.

"Thanks for meeting me all the way out here, gentlemen," Banner was saying. "Hope it wasn't too inconvenient. I just wanted to make sure we were well away from prying eyes – and ears."

"I'm sure you were also hoping to make sure that I wasn't truly a lawman," Rollins replied with a little smile. "Don't let the 'Detective' title fool you, Mr. Banner. I work only for myself."

"I can certainly respect that," Banner said, "from one private businessman to another. I must admit, though – it's a rare thing to find a man from New Orleans in the sticks of Virginia."

Rollins shrugged languidly. "I would imagine so. However, I'm here on a bit of business. Otherwise I would never find myself in such a beknighted town. And I warrant the same could be said for you. I believe I heard Chicago was your main stomping ground."

"It is," Banner said. "However I'm here on business myself, and, well, beknighted it might be, but some of the best white lightning you ever tasted comes straight from this place. It just can't be beat."

"Ah, yes," Rollins replied with an easy smile. "White lightning. I've heard so much about this magical concoction that I decided I simply had to have a taste for myself. And I have been told that the finest moonshine comes from Franklin County."

"Indeed it does," Banner said. "In fact some friends of mine are the main manufacturers of the moonshine I distribute. Pays to have friends in high places."

Howard suddenly made a bird noise and Banner turned slightly in the direction of the sound before continuing to speak; it was a signal they had agreed upon to alert Banner of their arrival.

"Friend in high places, indeed," Banner went on lightly. "In fact, I believe you know these friends of mine."

"Oh?" Rollins lifted an eyebrow in surprise. "I know so few people in Franklin County. Are you sure it's me?"

"Quite sure you've been acquainted. Or, rather – maybe it was the brass knuckles that you met." Banner smirked and glanced over his shoulders. "Come out and say hello, boys."

The three Bondurant brothers moved out of the trees into the little clearing. The stream rushed to Banner's right and there were more trees encircling them in a half-moon shape. Forrest kept his eyes on Rollins, who, to his credit, looked only mildly surprised.

"What is this?" Rollins demanded. "I came here to buy liquor."

"I think you came here for a hell of a lot more than you reckoned," Banner replied with a laugh. "I believe you know my friend Forrest here."

Forrest glared at Rollins, who stared back impassively. He lifted his hands into the air a little. The young man next to him remained motionless but studied the brothers intently.

"I believe that young Forrest and I have met on one occasion," Rollins said smoothly, exquisitely polite. "However I'm afraid that meeting was under rather unpleasant circumstances. Perhaps this one will be a little more friendly?"

"Fuck that," Howard spat.

"Howard," Forrest said calmly. He turned back to Rollins and pointed a finger at the man. "You stay the hell away from my family, my friends, my station. Stay the hell away from my town. Get out of this state. I'm not a man to make idle threats, Mr. Rollins, so let me be very clear: This is my last warning to you if you care about continuin' to live. Leave. Now."

Rollins smiled a little. "First of all, Mr. Bondurant, that would be _Detective_ Rollins, not 'Mr.'" Forrest spat on the ground at his words. "Second of all, I take your meaning and your warning very clearly. You're a straight-forward man, one who I gather doesn't like to beat around the bush. And I quite respect that. I know that you are protecting Miss Fontaine now as you were the last time you and I met. I imagine you fancy yourself in love with the young lady, and who could possibly blame you?" The detective shrugged again. "The fact remains, however, that she committed a crime for which she needs to pay. And there is family that is paying _me _an exorbitant amount of money to make _her _pay. And whether you like it or not, she is coming with me. Today. So I hope you got plenty of goodbyes in."

"Son of a bitch," Jack breathed, and lifted his pistol, pulling the hammer back, and pointed it at Rollins' forehead. The young man next to Rollins immediately lifted his own pistol and pointed it at Jack, and Howard pointed his revolver at the young man.

"Think very carefully about what you do next, young man," Rollins cautioned Jack.

"Oh, he has," Howard replied. "And so have I." He pulled the trigger before anyone could blink, and the bullet punched a hole into the forehead of the young man. He crumpled to the ground, and with a snarl, Jack hooked his finger on his trigger and prepared to squeeze. At the same time, Forrest suddenly heard a faint coughing sound from behind some trees not far away.

It suddenly all came together.

"No, Jack! Howard!" he bellowed, and Jack turned to look at him in confusion just as gunfire erupted.

Forrest ducked instinctively and whirled, just in time to see and feel bullets whizzing past him, about four or five, and all slam into Floyd Banner. Two bullets caught him in the temple and the cheek, a third in the neck and one or two more in his chest. He toppled over, falling into the stream, dead before the reddening water carried him off. Forrest ripped his pistol from his belt and brought his arm up, sidling away as he immediately returned fire. He took cover behind a huge boulder and saw Howard and Jack falling back into the forest behind trees, as roughly a baker's dozen men came out from the trees, pointing weapons at them.

As Forrest took aim and prepared to fire again, he realized Rollins had disappeared.


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: Shoutout to all y'all leaving me reviews. I truly, truly appreciate them. Besos! **

**Chapter 27**

Francie was restless.

She'd bathed, dressed, and even fixed her hair for no other reason than to do something, anything, to pass the time. She was jumpy, flinching at every noise around the station and outside of it that had previously gone unheard. She tried to read some of _Lady Chatterley's Lover_ but it only made her think of Forrest, when she was actually able to concentrate on the words, and that made her think of their present predicament and the potential trouble he might be in right now. And those thoughts set her to fretting all over again.

Finally she moved downstairs, noting how empty the station felt without even just one of the Bondurant brothers there. She missed Forrest's quiet storminess and his heartbreakingly handsome face, Howard's sarcastic, good-natured jabs, and Jack's energy. She hoped she'd get to see their faces with her own two eyes again.

_You mustn't think that way,_ she thought harshly. _You must believe they will return home safe._

She studied the clock on the wall. Two hours had passed since they had left. How long did such things normally take, she wondered dully as she paced like a caged animal back and forth in front of the door. Every five minutes she was scurrying to the window to see if they had arrived back yet. They hadn't.

"I must do something or I shall lose my mind," she said out loud, and after a moment of casting about desperately for something to do, she decided that she would prepare a nice lunch for them to come home to. The thought was mildly absurd to the rational part of her mind – men coming home and sitting down politely to a hearty, home-cooked meal after spending the afternoon killing, but she knew she needed to do something with her hands to keep them from wringing into each other, and it was the best thing she could come up with.

She found what she needed to make a fried chicken dinner – a whole plucked and skinned chicken was in the icebox. She found potatoes, flour, buttermilk and other foodstuffs in the pantry, and decided to make in addition to the chicken her special mashed potatoes, a pan of black-eyed peas with bacon, and her grandmother's fluffy buttermilk biscuits. She washed and cut up the chicken, seasoning it and rolling it in a special breading, then set to work on the biscuits, mixing the dough, kneading it, rolling the dough out and cutting the biscuits out. She washed and peeled the potatoes, cut them into quarters and then dropped them in a pot of cold water to boil. She fried bacon in the pan, leaving the drippings, and chopped it up along with an onion from the garden and mixed it with the beans.

The preparation before the actual cooking of the chicken took a fair amount of time as she forced her hands to work slowly. When the biscuits and the beans were done baking, she removed the pans from the oven and lowered the temperature. She put the biscuits in a basket and covered them with a cloth to keep them warm as long as possible and carefully placed the pan of beans on the range. If necessary, she would put them back in the oven to heat a bit if the brothers took longer than she hoped.

She dropped the first piece of chicken into the skillet and pushed it around with a pair of wooden tongs, staring off into space as it cooked. Grease splattered onto her hand and made her jump and hiss in pain, and she quickly flipped the chicken over in the pan before it burned.

"You always did get distracted when you tried to cook. I've told you before, over and over, you must pay attention, my sweet girl."

The cultured, smooth voice, one she had not heard in a long time, made her blood run cold. Francie froze, her hand tightening around the tongs as her heart beat fast, then slow, then jerked oddly in her chest. Her skin flamed and then went cold, and she breathed raggedly and sometimes not at all.

"Darling, aren't you going to turn around and greet me? It's been so long. I've missed you so."

Francie shook as she slowly turned around. Her former fiancé, Thomas Lattimore, smiled coldly at her. Her eyes went over his face before locking onto the snub-nosed revolver he held in his hand, that was pointed right at her gut.

He took a slightly limping step toward her and studied her intently, never lowering the gun. "My God," he said. "You look like an absolute fright. What has this state done to you? Your hair is a horrible mess. I was about to ask when it got curly, but then I remembered you are part-nigger. And speaking of," he went on, glaring at her face. "I see the sun has brought your true identity out. You are as brown as that chicken you're frying and freckled at that. You look downright common." He laughed cruelly. "I am absolutely astounded that you were able to pull off this farce of being a proper white woman this entire time. You are nothing but a common, low, dirty nigger-bitch slut. I bet you've been fucking that Bondurant man, haven't you? Does he enjoy your nigger-pussy?"

His disgusting words pierced her, but Francie forced herself to stay silent. For his part, Thomas looked positively insane, and she feared that a single word from her mouth would set him off and cause him to pull the trigger. However, she also understood that her time was running out, and quickly. He would only stand before her, hurling his vile insults for so long before he got bored. She was at a complete, helpless loss – what could she do? If she so much as tried to take a running step away, he would shoot her. If she opened her mouth to talk, to try to stall for time, he would likely shoot her. He stood between her and the front door to the station, and in order to reach the back door she would have to run and be very quick about it before her flesh was pierced with his bullets.

She was on the verge of panicking when the scent of burning chicken met her nose. Thomas was prattling on with more insults about her and the Bondurant man fucking all over the station and outside because she was a no-good whore. He was staring at her, but in such a way as to make her feel like he wasn't really seeing her. She knew she had one, and only one, opportunity to get away. She stared back at him, her face still, but she was breathing hard through her nose and her mind was whirling like mad.

_If you drop it, you are dead. If you miss, you are dead. If you are too slow, you are dead. _

She stared at him for a beat longer, and then her hand shot out and grabbed the handle of the cast-iron skillet. She cried out from adrenaline and pain, feeling the hot metal of the handle burning into the flesh of her palm, but with speed and strength that she didn't normally possess, she swung her arm and flung the contents of the pan – the burnt chicken breast and the hot, hot grease she fried it in – right at him.

He howled as the grease hit him, splattering onto his face and neck, and the chicken hit his chest. He doubled over, swiping at his face, and Francie rushed past him. She intended to hit him in the face with the pan, but the heat was unbearable and her grip automatically loosened, her body's defenses kicking in. The skillet merely whacked against his shoulder with a soft thud, though the heat alone was enough to send him sprawling to the floor. The gun slipped from his hands and she went for it.

Her foot accidentally kicked it further away from her in her haste to retrieve it, and as she went scuttling for it, Thomas reached out with a snarl and grabbed her ankle, yanking her down to the floor despite her hard grip on the counter, refusing to be brought down. She grabbed the pan of beans, still hot from the oven, and flung them all over him. He roared again, flailing his arms to get the hot beans off his flesh. She swung the pan at the side of his head and it glanced off, but he managed duck mostly out of the way and the pan went flying. She tried to kick out with her free foot, but he caught that as well, and using both of her legs as leverage, he yanked harder and she went down in the mess of grease and beans with a yelp.

For a moment, it was just heat and hands and nails and hot flesh and grunts. Francie didn't know where she began and Thomas ended but somehow they rolled out of the kitchen and into the dining area as they fought and struggled. Eventually, despite still obviously recuperating from his wound, Thomas gained the upper hand and rolled on top of Francie. He cracked her across the face with his fist, sending her head slamming into the wooden floor and dark spots dancing in her eyes.

"I suppose I should tell you," he hissed in her ear, grabbing her by the throat and squeezing. "Your beloved Bondurant and his two brothers are dead as we speak. They walked into an ambush. What do you think of that?"

Francie choked and wheezed for air, even she registered his words. Could it possibly be true, or was he just being cruel? The thought that they might truly be dead made her heart physically ache and she shut her eyes, tears of grief squeezing out of the corners. The sight of her tears only incensed Thomas further and he squeezed his hands around her throat even tighter.

"You would shed tears for an outlaw? A bootlegger, a moonshiner, the scum of society?" he raged angrily. "You would lie to an old, respected family, try to swindle your way into polite society, and then try to _kill me _and steal from me? I gave you everything! I gave you clothing and jewels and status and a set future! You stupid black cunt!"

With one hand he choked her, and the other he began raining blows down upon her. As she struggled to breathe, Francie feebly raised her hands to try to ward off his blows. After a moment, darkness won, claiming her, and her hands fell weakly to the floor. She had no way of knowing how long she was out, but the next thing she knew air, sweet air, was rushing into her lungs and she was gasping and choking and her body immediately turned itself onto its side to get away.

"You're supposed to be _dead!"_ Thomas roared from her other side. Francie realized that he had choked her until she lost consciousness and mistakenly thought he had killed her and rolled off her. He was struggling to his feet as she pulled herself away, her lungs burning. She got to her feet and realized she no longer saw the gun anywhere. She did, however, see the skillet still lying on the floor in the kitchen, and she hurried toward it, Thomas on her heels.

Now that it had had time to cool, it was much more manageable, and Francie was able to grab the handle just as Thomas fisted a hand into her hair and yanked. Her scalp jerked painfully and with a cry of pain, Francie swung the pan as hard as she could, connecting with his jaw and sending more grease and bacon and chicken bits flying through air and spattering on various surfaces. He looked dazed and immediately stumbled backward, but his hand was tangled in her curls and she toppled over with him. He lay still on the floor though his eyes were open and blinking and Francie squirmed like mad to get out of his grasp, losing a lock of hair in the process. She got away from him just as he was shaking his head and climbing to his feet again.

"You lousy bitch," he bellowed at her. "You lousy, stupid whore! Run, that's it. That's it. I will hunt you and kill you like a dog! I will shred your poisonous, disgusting flesh and feed it to the pigs! I'm going to dismember you!"

With a terrified sob, she fled the station.

:O:O:O:

"Goddamn, Forrest, I can't run another step without suckin' down some air. Stop, goddammit, let me breathe."

Forrest slowed to a halt to let Howard double over and suck in air. They'd managed to kill off some of the men that had ambushed them, but there had been a half-dozen more waiting behind the trees to take their places. Currently, Jack was nursing a bullet wound to his left shoulder and Howard had a nasty gash to his bicep. Forrest had been grazed on the side of his thigh, but he hardly felt the searing pain, so intent was he on returning to the station as fast as possible.

He'd led his brothers and the other men in a large, rough circle around the forest, hoping to throw them off to get back to the car. Normally he would have opted to stay and stand their ground, but he realized that they were outnumbered and outgunned. He refused to make the same mistake he had last year on that bridge. Moreover, it unnerved him that Rollins had disappeared so quickly. In Forrest's mind, there was only one place he could have gone, and Francie was there all by herself.

"C'mon, Howard," he rumbled. "Get your shit together. Just gotta get through this field. Them bastards are still in these woods. Jack, let's go."

Jack had been silent through the entire thing, and Forrest knew that his baby brother was feeling the loss of his idol and friend, Floyd Banner. Forrest himself felt no real emotion about the death of the famous mobster. He'd proven himself to be a decent sort, at least in Forrest's book, in the end but he was by no means what Forrest would have considered a friend.

"Let's go," he said tersely to his brothers, and started off through the tall grass of the field, moving fast despite the wound to his leg. He heard Howard puffing behind him as he struggled to keep up but he was grateful that Jack was like a silent machine, moving next to him though he was bleeding profusely.

They had just emerged from the field when the first bullets went whizzing past their heads. "There they are!" he heard the shout from the edge of the forest. "There's them bastards! They's 'bout to leave, git 'em!"

The brothers quickened their pace and Forrest hopped behind the wheel of the car, not trusting Jack's wounded shoulder to allow him to drive as expeditiously as he needed. He cursed the location of the so-called "meeting" – an hour from the station. He clenched his jaw, angry with himself for letting his need for vengeance take over his senses. _An hour away_, he thought bitterly. _I should have known fuckin' better._

He put the pedal to the metal and flew over the hard-packed dirt roads, letting his sense of direction take over his navigating. The wind rushed through the opened windows of the truck and he could hear Howard shouting.

"Take it fuckin' easy, Forrest, for Christ's sake!" his brother shouted, gripping the sides of the truck bed. "You're driving so fuckin' fast I'm like to go flyin' over the edges!"

"Then hang on tighter," Forrest growled back, flooring the pedal and flying along. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the steering wheel and he found himself praying again, a short, desperate prayer.

_Lord, either make this truck go faster or slow down time. I gotta make it back. Don't let nothin' happen to that woman…please._

He gritted his teeth and forced the truck along faster.

:O:O:O:

Francie stumbled through the field, panting after her fast, hard run across the grounds. She had led him in a cat-and-mouse chase over the grounds before moving toward the tall, grassy field. Only about fifteen seconds had elapsed between her exiting the station and then hearing the door to the station slam open and Thomas crashing out behind her, so she knew he wasn't far away. By now he'd been chasing her for at least half an hour and Francie was quickly running out of options. Her tight skirt and heels limited her range of movement, but adrenaline had lent itself to her and she couldn't have moved faster than if she'd been stark naked. She shoved through the tall grass, intending to try to lead him out as far as she could before doubling back and going back into the station to find the rifle that Forrest had left with her.

What she had failed to take into consideration, however, was how high the grass in the field was. At some points it towered over her small frame and completely obscured anything previously eye-level from her vision; the only thing she could see was the blue sky overhead. She was forced to rely on her sense of direction, which was sadly underdeveloped.

She reached down to grasp the hem of her pencil skirt in her hands and ripped one of the darts up her thigh to allow greater movement for her legs. She kicked out of her heels and kept moving, trying not to think about the field spiders or other critters that she could be stepping on or that could be biting her. The thought made her want to shriek with fright, but she kept her focus on moving as quickly and silently as possible while hoping she was steering herself in the right direction. If not…she could, and very probably would, die out here in this tall grass at the hands of her murderously insane ex-fiance.

For a moment she held very still, listening to try to get a better take on Thomas's position in relation to hers. She could faintly hear a thrashing noise somewhere behind her, as though he were fighting his way through the grass after her. She could just make out the sound of grunting, as though the effort was exerting him. She lingered a moment longer; if he was coming from the direction of the station, she could make a broad curve and head back in the other direction and she should find herself smack dab in front of the station.

She kicked her legs into gear, hoping for a gust of wind to pass over and cover the rustling noise she could not avoid making no matter how hard she tried to be quiet. Suddenly she felt something scuttle down a curly lock of her hair and over her face, and she reached up to brush it back. When she pulled her hand back, there was a large brown wolf spider on her hand. She flung her hand away and clapped a hand to her mouth, but an involuntary squeal of terror and disgust escaped her throat before she could muffle it entirely.

As she listened to her own sound echo through the field, she shut her eyes, hating herself in that moment and feeling her stomach drop to the ground. _You've just killed yourself, _she thought wretchedly. She held perfectly still, listening, and her blood ran cold when she heard a low chuckle, some dozen feet away.

"Spider, was it?" his voice called. "You always were deathly afraid of them, my love…"

Francie glanced around, and very slowly moved herself backward, trying to increase the distance between them without losing perspective on where the edifice of the station was. Grass crackled gently under her movements, but it was hardly audible to her, so she knew that the likelihood of Thomas hearing it was slim.

"Come on out, my darling," Thomas called to her again. "You're only prolonging the inevitable. Why extend your suffering?" His thrashing was getting louder, although not necessarily closer; she guessed that he was no longer worried about concealing his position now that he knew where hers approximately was. "Come out so I can flay your skin from your body. Do you recall when I said that to you in New Orleans? Shortly before you put a bullet through my heart?" He laughed again. "Or tried to, rather. Darling, you failed. I lived. And now I'm going to show you just how large of a mistake you made."

Francie moved back another several steps, looking up to see the tips of the tall grass moving with her. Thomas was tall; she was certain he could see it. Her fear was compounded when he laughed again.

"Come out, my little field mouse," he said. "Or shall I say – my little field hand?"

Suddenly, the sound of a motor met her ears – the sweet sound of a Ford Model T motor, popping and farting and hissing as it screeched to a stop. The braking noise caught her attention – it was almost as if the noise was due to the truck coming down from traveling at top speeds.

"Forrest," she mumbled, hardly realizing she'd uttered his name out loud. "Forrest!" She launched into motion when she saw the grass shaking before her, an instant before Thomas burst through the tall blades. "_Forrest!"_

She rushed out of the field and hit the ground at a dead run, able to just barely make out the figures of the brothers moving into the station. She willed her legs to move faster, blocking out everything but the brothers' bodies quickly disappearing inside the station. She heard Thomas breathing hard behind her and it made her run even faster. She wanted to laugh in sweet relief when the side of the building, the edge of the porch suddenly were only twenty feet away. She opened her mouth to scream his name again, but a heavy hand dropped over her mouth and she was tackled to the ground, air grunting out of her lungs on impact.

Thomas leered down into her face and she stared back up, her teeth cutting into the insides of her cheeks under the heavy pressure of his hand tightening around her face. She looked frantically over toward the station and tried to scream against his hand in vain as a sob choked her throat. She could throw a pebble and hit the station, she was that close. She tried to keep her eyes on the window as long as possible, expecting at any time to see a face, a beautiful, familiar Bondurant face, peering through it. Thomas laughed again and yanked her face toward him, his other hand gripping her throat tightly. Tears streamed from her eyes as she stared up at him.

He let go of her throat to reach into his pocket and withdraw a switchblade. He flicked it open right next to her eye and put a finger to his lips in an exaggerated shushing gesture.

_So close, _she thought mournfully, already grieving her own death as he began to drag her away. _I was so close. Please, Lord, please let it be quick._


	28. Chapter 28

**A/N: Warning. This chapter is full of (more) offensive language, sexual violence, and regular violence. Enter at your own risk.**

**Chapter 28**

"Uh, Forrest, you plannin' on slowin' up before you mow the station down?"

Jack's shout over the rushing wind broke through Forrest's reverie as he rushed down the long dirt path leading to the station. It jolted him as no one in the truck had said a word the entire time, and also because it was Jack who had spoken. His baby brother had been uncharacteristically silent since the shootout in the forest and the murder of Floyd Banner.

He realized he _was_ coming upon the station at an alarmingly high rate of speed, but he didn't care. He had a horrible feeling in his gut, one that had begun the moment he'd left the station that morning and one that had continued to grow through the afternoon. Now, it was so strong that he felt he could lose his mind with fear and worry.

"Forrest – Jesus! Hit the brakes!"

Forrest ignored Jack and drove even faster, despite the fact that the station was less than a hundred feet away. When he was within thirty feet he hit the brakes, and he heard Howard slam into the back of the cab and curse violently. The truck screeched and lurched to a stop, and Forrest barely shut it off before he was shoving the door open and jumping out.

He clenched his jaw at the sight of the first wrong thing he saw – there was a crowbar lying on the porch just below the ajar door, and the door's locking mechanism was bent out of shape, as though someone had wedged it and destroyed it. It could be done, but by someone possessing a fair amount of strength. He withdrew his pistol from his waistband and walked the length of the porch, absently noting his brothers had joined him. His eyes scanned the grounds and he could only make out the sound of the wind breezing through and rustling the tall grasses from the field. He turned and headed back toward the door, pushing it open and raising his pistol.

"Francie?" he called out curtly, scanning the room with his eyes and his gun as he moved slowly inside. "Francie!"

There was no reply, and the silence was deafening. The wretched feeling in his gut coiled tighter and he almost outwardly flinched.

"Forrest."

Jack's quiet utterance caught his attention and he glanced over to where his baby brother was standing between the dining area and the kitchen. There was a mess on the floor. Forrest stalked over and stared down, seeing grease, beans, and what looked like a burnt fried chicken breast flung all around. There was a flat, rectangular pan, oddly misshapen, lying on the floor alongside the big cast-iron skillet. There was also blood.

"Goddammit," he cursed, his voice low and sharp. "God_dammit_."

"I'll go check upstairs," Howard said quickly, and hurried up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Forrest knelt down and stared at the mess, trying to figure out what could possibly have happened. Apparently Francie had been in the middle of cooking something when she'd been attacked, and either she or the person that had attacked her had tried to use the cookware as a weapon. He glanced at the grease stains and drippings from the skillet and thought that it must have hurt like a bitch to have the hot contents thrown on unprotected flesh.

"Should have never left her," Forrest mumbled, hardly aware he was speaking out loud. He felt a sharp pang of guilt and increased frustration that the bastard investigator had gotten over on him. "God_dammit_, I knew better!"

He tensed when he felt Jack's hand drop lightly onto his shoulder. "We gon' find her," Jack said quietly. "One way or another. She's smart and brave, it just couldn't be that easy to take her down."

"She ain't strong enough to take on some grown man comin' for her," Forrest said angrily, though it was not directed at Jack. For a moment he pressed his fingers into his temple as he crouched over the mess on the floor. If she was gone, it was his fault, and only his, and he would have no one else to blame but himself. _You should have known fuckin' better_, he silently raged. _You should have known it was a goddamn trap._

Howard came back downstairs. "Nothin'," he reported. "Nothin' out of place, no messes, nothin'. Everything's neat as a pin, like she straightened up up there or somethin'. Didn't nobody go up there after she come down."

"Lookit, Howard." Jack pointed to the mess on the floor. "Someone come in through the front and attacked her. There's blood, too."

"Think it was that detective?" Howard asked, putting his hands on his hips. "I didn't see no other cars around. How do you suppose someone got here?"

"Plenty of ditches and tall grass to hide a car in," Forrest replied tightly. "Hell, we know that."

He glared at the floor, his mind whirling. He thought about suggesting they actually go out into the ditches and tall grass he'd just mentioned and look for a car or tire tracks. In the two, two and a half hours it had been since they'd left, anything could have happened. He tried not to think about the fact that someone could have been waiting on them to leave, pouncing as soon as they were gone. Then he frowned at the mess on the floor. Francie had still practically been in bed when he'd left; he assumed she would have washed and dressed, and Howard had mentioned it looked like she'd straightened things up. Then she had managed to cook most of a dinner; by the look of things, he guessed that it had been probably a couple of hours before anything had happened. That meant that if she had been taken, it had been fairly recently.

"We ought to look outside for tire tracks," he muttered. "Can gauge the direction someone headed in if they took her." He turned on his heel and headed back outside without waiting for any input from his brothers. They followed him after a beat and he glared around the porch.

The ground was hard packed dirt outside the station. Normally, tire tracks from his truck, Jack's car or any visiting vehicle were visible for a couple of hours at least after a car had been moved, before the wind blew it all away. In the immediate vicinity of the station, however, he could not locate any tire tracks that didn't belong to his Model T.

"Anything?" he called over to Howard, who was near the edge of the road. His older brother shook his head. "Jack?"

After a moment, he glanced up, not seeing his brother. He walked slowly toward the other side of the station, where he found Jack crouched on the ground next to the side of the building, looking at something.

"What you lookin' at, Jack?" he asked, a little impatient. The last time he checked, cars didn't generally park on the side of the station.

Jack stood slowly and turned around, meeting his brother's eyes. Finally, he extended his hand and Forrest took a good, long look at what he saw there in his brother's fist, feeling his stomach clench in on itself.

A shiny silver necklace, with a little pendant like a locket, dangled from his fingers, its clasp broken. And Forrest didn't have to be up close and personal to see the streaks of blood on it.

:O:O:O:

_"__Francie? Francie!" _

_Forrest's slightly impatient voice met her ears as he called after her, the tall grass rustling as he moved through it, trying to locate her. Francie held still and clapped a hand to her mouth, trying to suppress a mischievous giggle._

_"__C'mon, now. Come on out to me, y'hear?"_

_Francie stealthily backed up, hearing him get a little closer to her hiding place. The sun shone brightly in the cerulean blue sky, fat white clouds like puffs of cotton dotting the blue expanse intermittently. A soft, sweet breeze blew past them continuously, this way and that, but on the breeze she could smell his scent, his aroma, his delicious fragrance, wafting into her nose. She took another slow, quiet step backward, letting the blades before her close._

_"__C'mon, now, Francie."_

_Forrest's impatience, edged with eagerness to find her, made her giggle out loud despite her best efforts to swallow it. She loved to drive him crazy with her silly antics. She heard the rustling noise stop for a moment, then start up again, this time heading for her._

_"__I heard that. I'm gon' find you, you little fox. Matter o' time, honey."_

_She turned to go deeper into the grass, the soft, sweet-smelling grass, and had taken only three big steps when his hand dropped onto her shoulder and she turned, staring up into his twinkling pewter blue eyes, unable to suppress a saucy grin._

_"__Can't hide from me, darlin'," he whispered, pulling her against him. "You can't hide from me."_

:O:O:O:

"…can't ever hide from me, my darling," a voice rasped in her ear as she struggled with consciousness. "I will find you always."

But it was not the low, velvety, rich voice that she loved, the one that made her heart soar and her knees weak when it spoke directly into her ear. Nor was it the large, rough, calloused hands she adored, the ones that always touched her so gently, almost reverently, as though her skin was the most priceless material, to be treated with the utmost care and respect.

This voice was full of hatred and evil, the words edged like a switchblade, and the words meant to cut and to destroy. The hands that touched her were rough indeed, but rough with the intention of hurting her, causing her pain and ending her life.

Opening her eyes, even just a slit, required tremendous effort on her part, and it was a greater effort still to keep them open. She was in the grass again, and it was a beautiful day, but it was not Forrest that she was with.

It was Thomas.

Her hands were bound with a thin rope, knotting painfully into her wrists. She was lying on her back, staring up at the sky. Her head hurt horribly, and almost every inch of her skin ached. She remembered that he had knocked her over just as she'd reached the station and had dragged her back into the tall grass, beating her along the way. The flesh of her neck stung, and she recalled that he had spied her locket and ripped it from her neck, cutting her skin, and had thrown it to the ground and declared she would never see it again. He had dragged her by her hair and a wrist into the grass, and she recalled this as her scalp suddenly screamed to life with pain. She couldn't remember how far he had dragged her, because he had started to beat her again. She had turned her face away so he rained blows on her temples and the back of her head, and one of them must have succeeded in knocking her out momentarily.

Now she was conscious again, and every nerve in her body screamed with pain. Her skin was streaked with sweat and dirt and blood, and she became aware that Thomas was crouched over her with a blade in his hand, after securing her wrists. She wondered where he had gotten the rope, as she could not recall having ever seen any on the grounds before. That didn't mean it wasn't there, or perhaps he had brought his own. He seemed to have arrived at the station with a plan; she figured he was smart enough to assume he might need or want the use of a rope.

"I've been thinking," Thomas murmured in her ear. "I'm a bit perturbed that this Bondurant fuck got a chance to have you before I ever did. Since you're nothing but a whore anyway, why shouldn't I take you now as well? You were mine before you tried to murder me and rob from me. If you can get a famous bootlegging criminal to be your knight in shining armor, you must have something positively _stupendous_ between these thighs of yours." He reached down and grabbed her sensitive feminine flesh between her legs, hard, and squeezed. Francie cried out weakly. "I was forced to visit the Magnolia Blossom on at least a weekly basis trying to preserve your honor during our engagement, but little did I know that my sweet flower of a fiancée was nothing but a filthy nigger-whore." He leaned into her face as he shoved her skirt up her thighs and over her hips. "Tell me, my sweet. Did he have a cock bigger than mine? Did you use your sweet mouth on it?" He wedged two dirty fingers forcefully into her mouth, toward her throat until she coughed and gagged. "Did he make you choke on his cock as I wished to make you choke on mine?" He fisted a hand into her hair and jerked and she moaned in agony.

"Yes, that's it, darling," he crooned. "Moan louder for me. I like it when you moan like the filthy whore you are." He punched her in the stomach and Francie let out another involuntary groan, gasping as the air was knocked out of her. Then he slapped her across the mouth and she tasted blood. He rose to his knees and unbuckled his trousers, then straddled her chest. He stared down at her as he pulled himself from his pants and held himself in front of her mouth. Francie wanted to retch at the sight of it; he was hard and straight as a ramrod, his uncircumcised head looking unclean and crusty with white flakes of skin. He pulled the foreskin back to reveal a shiny tip, red and bulbous like a dog's. A slightly foul odor wafted from his groin area out of his pants and she gagged again.

"I'll give you a real reason to choke, you black bitch," he hissed down at her. He pressed his knees painfully hard into her arms to hold her in place and fisted her curls again, yanking her head up toward him. "Now open your mouth and fill it with my cock, my darling."

He was panting as his member strained for her and he bumped against her chin. Tears poured from her eyes and disgust filled her as she tried to turn her head away, but his grip in her hair and the pressure on her arms from his knees was too heavy, too painful. He let go of himself with his other hand and grabbed her jaws, forcing them open.

"Suck it," he hissed angrily, and snapped his hips forward, forcing the head of his member toward her mouth. Francie instinctively tried to jerk her head back but he grabbed onto her curls and yanked her forward. She folded her lips inward and pressed them together, jerking her head from side to side. "I said, suck, you whore. _Suck_!"

Francie gagged again from the rank odor and strained against his grasp, but he held her in place and started to thrust his hips in an effort to breach her mouth. Finally he grew enraged with her struggling and grabbed her face again.

"Struggle as much as you wish," he snarled. "By the time I'm through with you, you'll wish you would have simply opened your disgusting fat mouth to me." He grabbed her roughly and flipped her over, slamming her down on her stomach as he tore at her clothes. He shoved her skirt up higher and pulled her knickers down, grabbing a handful of her backside and squeezing painfully.

"I heard you filthy black whores like to take it up your asses," he said in her ear. "And that's just what I'm going to give you." He yanked her legs open and then pushed the cheeks of her buttocks apart. Francie began to thrash wildly, letting out a low, strangled scream. Her voice was so raspy, her throat dry, that she was amazed she emitted any sort of harsh noise at all.

_Not like this_, she begged silently. _Not like this. Please, God, not like this._

"Francie!"

The shout was the sweetest sound she heard in that moment and for an instant, she thought she dreamed it. But she heard it echoing over the field, not further than thirty feet away, and she knew he was there, he was looking for her.

She opened her mouth to scream back when Thomas dropped his hand over her mouth and squeezed again, and her teeth cut into the tender flesh of the inside of her cheeks once more. She screamed into his hand, thrashing again violently, trying to jerk away from him although all of his body weight was lying over her back.

She bit his fingers savagely, so hard she tasted blood, and as he roared in pain, jerking his hand back, she spat blood and screamed. "_Forrest!"_

It was all she got out before Thomas was slamming his fist into the side of her head. Her vision immediately went hazy and blurry and she realized she was so tired, almost too tired to hold her head up, and it began to wobble. She tried to call his name again, but only a raspy whisper came out, not the scream she had intended. Then she realized that she couldn't breathe, because Thomas was choking her again, squeezing around her throat with unimaginable force. Her windpipe was being crushed under his hands and he was whispering more hateful things in her ear, things about how she would never live to see her beloved Bondurant again and that she was paying for her royal mistake. He was a Lattimore, he said in her ear, and you just didn't cross a Lattimore.

She blacked out then, managing only a brief prayer that she might get to rest in the fields of the kingdom of Heaven despite her sins if it was now her time to go.

:O:O:O:

The choking scream made Forrest's blood run cold and he stopped in his tracks, his head whipping in the direction it came from just as his brothers caught up with him.

"There, it came from there!"

Howard's het-up voice spurred him into action then and he was already running before his little brother completed his sentence. His blood unfroze and began boiling in his veins as he wondered what he was going to see. He pulled his knuckles over the fingers of his right hand and gripped his pistol in his left. He didn't know which one he'd need, or which one he'd prefer in the heat of the moment, but his rage was causing him to damn near fly across the field.

He wished for another scream, so he could pinpoint her location now that he was closer, but no more screams came. He stopped again, his head turning from side to side as he strained to listen.

"Where?" he growled out loud in frustration. "Where are you?"

"Forrest, I hear somethin'," Jack said urgently, leading him off in a direction just slightly northwest of where he was standing. He instinctively followed his brother, and he could gradually begin to make out several different noises – the crazed, low murmur of a male voice, the sound of flesh pounding flesh, and a pained, feminine wheeze.

"Ah, Christ!" Jack suddenly shouted, coming to an abrupt halt. He raised a hand shaking with wrath, clutching his gun. "You fuckin' piece of shit!"

"No, Jack!" Howard said, grabbing his brother's arm. "This is Forrest's!"

Forrest barreled past both of his brothers and came upon a sight that made him want to vomit. A young, hulking man was stretched out on top of Francie, his britches undone. His hands were wrapped around her neck and he stared up at the three brothers with an odd look in his eyes, one that accepted his on-coming fate, understanding what was going to happen, but not appearing to care very much, as he continued to choke her. Francie was motionless, her eyes rolled back into her head, her mouth open.

Surprisingly, Forrest felt extremely calm as he took two long steps toward them. He grabbed the young man who could only be Thomas Lattimore by the hair on his scalp and yanked him up with an almost inhuman strength. He wished he could cut himself in two in that moment – one part of him to scoop up Francie and make sure she was all right, that she was _alive_ and the other part to take his time and torture this man who had made the fatal mistake of fucking with his family.

But there was only one Forrest, and his hands were full at the moment.

He stared Thomas right in the eye and moved to quickly grab the front of his throat in an iron grip. The young man's hands immediately came to Forrest's wrist in an attempt to pry him off, but to no avail.

"Get her and take her in the house," Forrest said calmly to his brothers. He squeezed his fingers and Thomas choked. He looked down, seeing the hairy bush of Thomas's groin peeking out from the top of his undone trousers. He glanced over at Francie, where Jack was delicately pulling her skirt down over her bared backside before gathering her up in his arms. Howard helped Jack get Francie out of the grass and toward the station. He turned back toward Thomas.

"You thought all this was a good idea, son?" Forrest asked him quietly, surprising himself with how steady and calm his voice sounded. "Come here to my land, my property, my town, try to take what's mine?"

A metallic glint caught his eye and he glanced over, seeing an open switchblade lying in the matted grass. Without loosening his grip on Thomas's throat, he leaned over and snatched it into his hand. He held it up to Thomas's eye.

"You was gonna use this on her?" he asked. "Like you was gonna use your cock?"

He reached down and unceremoniously yanked Thomas's prick out of his pants and then, in one deft motion, swung his arm sliced it off with the blade like he might cut through brush. Thomas's eyes bugged out of his head and there was a curious beat of silence before he opened his mouth and managed to scream like a banshee despite the iron vise of Forrest's hand around his throat. Forrest stepped calmly to the side as blood spurted from the gaping wound. The dismembered cock fell in the grass and Forrest nudged it away with his foot.

Thomas was still screaming, his eyes rolling and wide as he thrashed under Forrest's grip. The noise was irritating, so Forrest used the brass on his knuckles to crash into his open mouth. Thomas's teeth cut into his flesh a little, but mostly they broke off against the brass, flying back into his mouth and cutting his throat, causing him to choke. Forrest finally released him and Thomas fell to his knees, now bleeding from where his cock used to be and from his broken mouth. He retched up the blood that was filling his throat from the teeth he was swallowing as he flailed about in the grass. Forrest watched him for a moment, before lifting his foot and slamming his boot into the center of his back and flattening him. Thomas was gurgling and jerking, beginning to die from drowning in his own blood, but Forrest needed him to stay awake for a moment longer.

He reached for the dismembered cock in the grass, pursing his lips in mild revulsion, and forced Thomas's mouth open. He shoved it into Thomas's mouth, and even though he was dying, even through his excruciating pain, the disgust of the action registered in his eyes and he began gagging even harder, his eyes rolling wildly. Forrest rose and grabbed him by the foot and began dragging him out of the grass toward the station, facedown so it would hurt his open wounds all the more. He finally emerged from the grass, seeing his brothers on the porch, support Francie between them. Forrest allowed himself a moment of relief at seeing that not only was she alive, she was on her feet even though she needed the support of his brothers' arms.

He continued to drag Thomas over the hard packed dirt until he was about twenty feet from the station. He met Francie's bright blue eyes, the color so clear and beautiful even though she was smudged with dirt and blood and in pain.

_My sweet girl._

Thomas had managed to halfway swallow his own cock, as opposed to spitting it out as Forrest would have expected. He shook his head and reached down, turning Thomas's face toward the porch. He wanted to make sure she would see the light going out of his eyes no matter how repugnant it was. His brothers' faces remained impassive, but Francie's screwed up in distaste. But there was a look of rage on her face that Forrest could clearly see, an anger that he knew sparked a need for vengeance. He knew it, because he had felt it plenty of times himself.

He put his foot on Thomas's back and aimed the gun at the back of his skull. He looked up again, meeting Francie's eyes.

Her jaw clenched and her lips, her beautiful, dear lips that he loved, pulled into a tight line. She glared at the face of her former fiancé for a long time. Finally, she met Forrest's gaze and gave him the smallest, slightest of nods.

Forrest tugged the brim of his hat in reply, and then glanced down at the wretched man below him. He pulled the trigger and the explosion was deafening, reverberating off the station and echoing into the distance. Below him, Thomas's skull blew apart and his body jerked violently, then went still.

Forrest glanced back up. Francie had a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide, and he knew she'd never witnessed something so violent before. But as she locked gazes with him, her eyes were flooded with something like relief.

_He won't be bothering you again, honey_. _Ever._

Forrest tucked his gun back in his belt and slipped his knuckles off his hand and dropped them in his pocket. He had taken three steps toward the porch, his eyes glued to his woman, intending to reach her and pull her close and squeeze her until he was satisfied that she was all right, when the sound of a motor met his ears and he saw the sheriff and his deputy pulling up to the station.


	29. Chapter 29

**A/N: Hey guys. Thanks for bearing with me through the violence and unpleasantness of the last chapter. This one has some more violence in it though it's not quite as gratuitous as the last chapter. I hope you like it. Read and REVIEW! The more reviews I get the more eager it makes me to update :-) xoxo**

**Chapter 29**

Forrest made his way to the porch, fishing a half-smoked cigar from his pocket and putting it between his teeth. He found a box of matches in the same pocket and struck one, puffing the cigar a few times to get it going. Normally he was just a puffer, not an inhaler, but with as worked up as he was feeling on the inside, his blood still pumping hard through his veins, he drew in the heavy smoke; his brain instantly went fuzzy, and then he blew it out in a long, straight stream.

He watched impassively as Sheriff Potts and Deputy Branson slowly walked toward them. He considered himself and his brothers to be on "friendly" terms with the law officers, given the fact that they had no choice since they both secretly enjoyed his product, but they were by no means "friends". Forrest narrowed his eyes when the two lawmen got close enough for him to read their facial expressions. They both looked troubled.

Sheriff Potts swept his hat off his head as he stepped up a few of the porch stairs. "Forrest," he said solemnly. He nodded at the other two Bondurant brothers. Howard folded his arms across his chest and glared at the sheriff openly; he was not fond of lawmen no matter how much they patronized his family's business. Jack nodded back to the sheriff from where he stood with his arm still wrapped around Francie's waist. "Howard. Jack. Francie."

"What seems to be the trouble, Sheriff?" Forrest asked coolly. He watched as Sheriff Potts' eyes took in the carnage just off to the side of the building where Thomas Lattimore's body still rested. Forrest had neither the time nor the inclination to even attempt to hide the body. Lattimore had attacked him and his, and had gotten what he'd deserved. In fact, Forrest personally felt that he'd gone easy on the man.

"Jesus Lord, Forrest? What in the good goddamn –" Sheriff Potts shook his head quickly and refocused. "We'll get to that in a minute. I come to tell you that, uh –" He glanced at Deputy Branson. "Forrest, I come to tell you I'm gonna have to place you under arrest for the murder of Floyd Banner."

"Like _goddamn fucking hell _you are!" Howard raged, unfolding his arms and starting to storm down the stairs. Forrest stopped him with an outstretched hand.

"Sheriff, you've met my brother Howard, haven't you?" he asked the sheriff evenly. "You don't just roll up to my place and spout off somethin' like that to me in front of him with no warnin'. Liable to end up losin' your head that way."

Sheriff Potts sighed. "Forrest, listen. I received a phone call a couple of hours ago sayin' that the sheriff and the deputy needed to go drag the crick in the forest just outside Roanoke and we'd find the body of Floyd Banner and that you'd been the one to murder him. Now, we get all sorts of calls of similar sort and nine times out of ten, they're unfounded. But we went, and we dragged that crick, and sure as shit, we found Banner's body. Looked like he'd been shot up a handful of times."

"He was," Forrest replied, still perfectly calm. He took another long drag of his cigar and lazily exhaled the smoke. "I wasn't the one who done it, though."

Sheriff Potts sighed. "Forrest, come on, now. Don't make this harder than necessary."

Howard growled, and Forrest held up his hand again. He eyed the sheriff and began moving down the steps toward him, and the sheriff nervously backed up. Forrest sauntered toward him until Sheriff Potts hit the side of his car and had nowhere else to move. Forrest puffed at his cigar as he studied the man. They were of similar height and build, but right now, Sheriff Potts seemed so much smaller than him.

"Sheriff," he said quietly. "I'm a bootlegger. A moonshiner. A law-breaker, in other words. Let's go 'head and call it what it is. I know this. You know this. You've partaken in my law-breaking activities, even. You know I have a certain way of doing business. You see that there." Forrest gestured with his cigar between his fingers toward the body of Thomas Lattimore lying pitifully in the dirt. He turned back and locked eyes with the sheriff. "I ain't got no qualms about coppin' to my doings. If I done it, I done it, and I'll be the first to admit it. I've got a goddamn dead body lyin' not thirty paces away, one that I done myself. I did that. If I'm admittin' that to you now – why the hell would I lie about shootin' Floyd Banner?"

"I take your point, Forrest," the sheriff replied quietly. "If you didn't kill Banner, then who did?"

Forrest shrugged. "Some hired man for a Detective Rollins from New Orleans, as far as I know. Maybe he's the one you oughtta be talkin' to."

Sheriff Potts frowned. "Detective Rollins from New Orleans? _He's_ the one what called in the first damn place!"

"Seems to me like he told you a tall tale to frame me," Forrest replied.

Sheriff Potts sighed again. "Who is that over there, and why in the fuck did you kill him?"

"That," Forrest said, pointing again, "is a young man by the name of Thomas Lattimore. Also from New Orleans. He was supposed to be marryin' Miss Francie until the night he decided he'd rather beat and kill her instead, so she defended herself by shootin' him first. 'Cept, as you can see, he didn't die then. So he hired that Detective Rollins to come after her to drag her back to New Orleans to pay for what she done, and he attacked her here, today." He blew a cloud of smoke over the sheriff's shoulder. "Tried to rape her and murder her. So I took care of the matter myself."

"Forrest," Francie gasped from behind him on the porch. She sounded horrified.

"It's all right, honey," he called over his shoulder, without looking away from the sheriff. "Ain't it, Sheriff Potts?"

Sheriff Potts swiped a hand over his face and glanced at his deputy, who was practically hyperventilating at the story. "Damn and blast it, Forrest," he said eventually. "What kind of mess you got goin' on here?"

"I'm hopin' one you can help me clean up," Forrest replied quietly. "Something we can sort through together. For old times' and friendship's sake." The last part was pointed, and it was also a slightly veiled threat. Sheriff Potts got the message immediately; Forrest could practically see the man playing back memories of every ounce of liquor he'd drunk at the station and at Miz Judy's, liquor he'd purchased from Forrest himself.

"Let us come on inside," Sheriff Potts said, rather grudgingly, "and give me a goddamn drink and we can try to sort this all out –"

His words were cut off when the sound of several loud car motors met their ears. Every head swiveled toward the road where three long black sedans were careening toward them. By their speed and urgency, Forrest immediately got the impression that this was not a friendly visit.

"Get inside the station, now," he barked to Francie, reaching for his pistol. "Hide. Howard – get the rifles."

He followed behind the sheriff and deputy as they ran into the station for cover, slamming the door as the first of the men from the forest jumped out and began firing. Howard tossed him a rifle, one to Jack, and kept one for himself. They took up positions near the windows, with Forrest at the leftmost window, Sheriff Potts stationed toward the middle, and Howard at the right.

"Where is she?" he called to Howard.

"Made her hide under a bed," he called back. "Upstairs."

Forrest nodded back and used the barrel of the rifle to break out a pane of glass in the window. He took aim and began firing. He immediately put one man down, and counted; by his recollection, they had left about nine men alive in the forest before they had escaped. In front of him now were five. That meant that four of them had probably gone around to the back, hoping to take them by surprise.

"Jack! Branson!" he shouted. "The back."

His baby brother nodded, and Forrest was slightly amused to see that he looked a damned sight calmer and more focused than the supposedly seasoned lawman. He turned his attention back to the front and ducked fast enough to just dodge another bullet that came whizzing through the wall. He rose up again and sent another shell into another body. There were only two of the five shooters still active, and they finally had gotten the good sense to hide behind their vehicles. And now, Forrest realized, he was out of shells. He pulled his pistol from his belt and saw that of his six-shot revolver, he had only three shots left. Sheriff Potts had put one man down, but he glanced at his own revolver, and then held up one finger at Forrest – one shot left. He glanced over at his brother, and saw that Howard's previous military training had taken over. Howard might be violent, unpredictable and often drunk, but one thing about him that Forrest would forever appreciate was that his older brother was a crack-shot. He studied the three cars curiously for a moment, and then looked back over at Howard and Sheriff Potts.

"Gas tank," he called, and his brother and the sheriff both nodded, aiming their weapons at the car furthest to the right and at the one in the middle, while Forest took aim at the car on the left. Two well-placed shots from him had the gas tank exploding, and a moment later, the car Howard had been aiming at exploded as well. Forrest moved over to take a better shot at the middle car, and emptied his last round as Sheriff Potts and Howard did the same. The car exploded like the others, sending fireballs shooting into the sky. A moment later, screams pierced the air, as the two men who had hidden behind the cars stumbled away from them, and one of the men who Forrest had believed he had previously killed began rolling on the ground. They were on fire.

Forrest stood emotionlessly at the window, leaning on his elbows and watched them flail around as flames engulfed their bodies. The man on the ground, already wounded, quickly succumbed to his wounds and finally went still. The other two, Forrest noted with curious disinterest, took longer to take down. But eventually, whether it was from smoke inhalation, shock, the melting of their insides, or a combination of all three, they went down and stayed there.

From his right side, Howard began to crow with laughter. "Ain't never seen a motherfucker burn before, little brother. That is some crazy shit right there, I tell ya."

Forrest turned from the window and headed toward the back, wondering how his baby brother and the frightened deputy had fared. Howard and the sheriff followed him and he threw the backdoor open, finding Jack and the deputy with a man face-down in the dirt, and he was alive. Aside from Thomas's body, there were three other dead ones scattered around.

Jack had his foot in the middle of the remaining man's back, the barrel of his rifle pressed to the back of his skull. Deputy Branson was holding out his revolver, pointing it vaguely at the man's head. Forrest ambled toward them, dimly noting that his cigar had about two inches of ash on it. He tapped it off and took a long pull. He crouched down next to the man in the dirt.

"Who are you?" he asked quietly. The man did not respond, only continued to pant harshly and plead for his life. Forrest sighed and grabbed a handful of the man's hair, pulling his head back at an odd angle and making the man cry out in pain. "Don't make me ask you again, boy."

"Name's Danny," the man gasped.

"And, Danny, what the hell you doin' out here, shootin' up my place? Were you in the forest?"

"Rollins sent us," he said hoarsely. "Said y'all Bondurant brothers got away and we needed to go and finish the job. Said he sent Tommy Lattimore ahead of us to take care of the girl. He said not to touch the girl, only Tommy touches the girl."

"You see what happened to little Tommy, right?" Forrest asked gently, yanking Danny's head in the direction of Thomas's lifeless body. They were positioned to where Danny could clearly see the back of the man's skull blown off, and his own mutilated cock shoved halfway down his throat. "You see that, Danny?"

Forrest's voice was still low and calm, soothing almost, but Danny whimpered at the sight. Still gripping Danny's scalp, he forced his head back the other direction. "Now. Where's this Rollins fellow who sent you here?"

"I-I dunno," Danny blubbered. "I dunno where he went. He told us just outside the forest what we was supposed to do and I ain't seen him after that. Please, Mister, don't kill me!"

"You sure you ain't seen that detective anywhere after you left the forest?" Forrest asked, resting his hand on Danny's head in an almost brotherly fashion. "You're absolutely positive?"

"I am absolutely positive," Danny babbled. "I am. I ain't never been surer of nothin' else in my life. He gave us our orders and sent us off and I ain't seen him since. I dunno where he is now. I promise you that, Mister, I do!"

Forrest nodded pensively. He stood up and pulled Deputy Branson's revolver out of his hands and before Danny could blink or register what was happening, Forrest pointed the gun at the back of his head and pulled the trigger. The sound of the explosion resonated across the open area and Danny's body flailed, his hands beating a brief tattoo on the ground, and then he was still.

Forrest glanced around the yard, ignoring the looks that Sheriff Potts and Deputy Branson gave him. His own brothers looked at him, though not quite with surprise; they knew what he was capable of by now. Forrest eyed the five dead bodies scattered around the back and thought of the five in the front.

"Mess around here," he muttered. "Got to get the bodies piled up and burned."

"Deputy Branson," Sheriff Potts said. "Gather all of the bodies in a pile back here and burn them. I need to talk to the brothers inside just now, if you don't mind."

It wasn't exactly a request to speak with the Bondurant brothers; the sheriff turned on his heel and headed inside after giving each brother a pointed stare. Jack and Howard glanced back at him, and Forrest shrugged and made a little gesture to follow the sheriff inside. He needed to check on Francie anyhow.

"Get the good sheriff a drink, won't you, Brother Howard?" Forrest said, heading for the stairs. "Let me go fetch Miss Francie."

Though his manner was calm, in truth Forrest was still worked up on the inside. Since ending the miserable existence of that rat bastard, Thomas Lattimore, things had moved so quickly that he still hadn't had the chance to check Francie out for himself. Though he'd managed to hold things together up until now in order to take care of the business that had most recently presented itself, his hands shook slightly with anxiety, and his utter fundamental need to _see_ her, to touch her to make sure she was all right made him take the stairs three at a time.

Howard had failed to mention which bed she was hiding under, but to Forrest the most logical place to look was her bedroom. He pushed open the door.

"Francie?"

There was no immediate answer as he glanced about the room, frowning. From across the hall and behind his own closed bedroom door, he heard a muted thumping, sliding noise, of little shoes on hard wooden floors. As though someone were moving out from under a bed. He turned quickly and crossed the hall, pushing his own bedroom door open just as Francie was getting to her feet. Her curly black hair was wild and her normally deep bronzed skin was pale. He could see that she physically exhausted and drained, but she staggered to her feet anyway, her large crystalline blue eyes shining with emotion at him.

"Forrest," she said hoarsely. "Forrest."

Forrest's throat tightened a little with emotion at the sound of overwhelming relief in her voice when she saw him and his heart caught a little at the way she stumbled toward him. He crossed the room in two strides and then he had her in his arms. She was choking on a sob and clutching at him, and he was trying to hold her at arm's length so he could look at her face, her arms, her stomach and her back, to make sure she was really fine. She was crying and shaking with relief and gladness, crying incoherently, and not listening to his quiet directives to put her arms down and let him look at her. Finally he gripped her waist and turned her, pushing her so her back was against the wall. He cupped her jaw in one hand and squeezed just a little to try to get her to focus on him and listen.

"Francie, honey," he said gently. "You have to hush. I need to make sure you're all right."

"I am," she cried weakly. "I am. Please, just hold me, Forrest. I can still – I can still feel his hands on me. Please hold me, please…"

Forrest relented, to her and to himself, and gathered her body in his arms, pulling her against him. He leaned his forehead against the wall, turning his face inward to brush her neck lightly with his lips as she clung to him. She was silent now, but her body heaved and jerked with silent sobs. He felt wetness rolling down his neck from where her tears landed on him. He held her tightly against his chest until he felt her body begin to relax a little. Finally he pulled back and peered into her face, smoothing her hair back gently.

"Honey," he said softly. "Tell me what he did to you."

"We fought, him and me," she whispered. "We fought hard. Downstairs. I managed to get away from him and I ran outside. I intended to lead him out into the grass, to give myself the chance to get him sidetracked and then run back into the station to get the rifle you left with me."

"Why didn't you have it on you in the first place?" he asked, his voice still gentle. "Why didn't you keep it with you like I told you?"

"I –" She looked sheepish. "I was quite agitated with worry about you and the boys and I needed to find something to do to pass the time. I went downstairs to cook dinner for you all when you got back, and that's when he took me by surprise. I had almost made it back to the station when you all arrived back. You had just gone inside. I was so close, but he caught me and he dragged me back into the grass, where you found me."

Forrest recalled seeing her naked lower half when they'd found her in the grass and he clenched his jaw. "What did he do to you out there?" he asked. "Did he –"

"Almost," she said quickly, seemingly not wanting to hear him utter the word "rape". "He tried to – to force himself into my mouth, but I managed to resist until he got frustrated. He turned me over and was about to – do it, when you called out for me."

Forrest balled a fist at his side as a killing rage fell over him. He wished he could go outside and revive that son of a bitch Lattimore and torture and kill him all over again. He had not known that the bastard had tried to force his prick into Francie's mouth and was all the happier at his choice to cut it off and shove it down the fucker's own throat. _Suck on it yourself and burn in hell while you do_, Forrest thought.

"Forrest," Francie's soft whisper and the feel of her hands on his face brought him back to her. He stared into her eyes as she stroked his face over his rough stubbly beard. "You saved me. He would have tortured me and killed me if you had not called out for me, found me when you did. And you finally took him out of this world. Whatever happens now, at least I no longer have to worry about him." She slipped her arms around him again, but this time her embrace was calmer, tender. He tightened his arms around her, gripping a handful of her curls.

"I shoulda never fell for that stupid meeting," he mumbled into her hair. "I was so enraged and drunk off revenge that I just went, I never stopped to think –"

"Hush," Francie said quietly, and he realized dimly that now she was the one to comfort him. Her hands slipped soothingly up and down his back. "Don't you do that, Forrest. Don't you blame yourself. Everything worked out fine, didn't it? I'm here, you're here, your brothers are here." She pulled back slightly to look up into his face. He returned her gaze.

"I should never have left you," he said simply.

She frowned up at him, unhappy that he was blaming himself, and pressed up on her toes, brushing her lips against his. "All that matters is that you came back," she said against his lips.

"Forrest! Everything all right?"

Forrest broke away from her lips, turning in the direction of Howard's voice calling from downstairs. "Yeah," he called back gruffly. He turned to Francie and traced the line of her cheekbone with his index finger. "Need to speak to Sheriff Potts just now. Figure out what we're going to do."

"Oh," Francie said, and nodded. "Shall I – shall I wait here for you?" She took a step backward, preparing to perch on the edge of his bed, but he caught her firmly by the hand.

"Hell, no," he said. "I want you right here by my side."

Hand in hand, they descended the stairs and entered the dining room. In addition to Sheriff Potts, it appeared that his brothers were having a drink as well. Jack held out a jar of apple brandy wordlessly toward him and Francie, and without hesitation Francie reached out and took it. Forrest lifted an eyebrow mildly at her and she shrugged, tipping her head back to take a healthy swig. She swallowed, her pretty, bruised face screwing up a little and handed him the jar. At first, he thought to refuse, but then he realized that his nerves were a sight more shaken up than he cared to admit, and pulled the jar out of her hand and took a long swallow himself.

"All right," he said finally, passing the jar back to Francie. "We're all accounted for, now, Sheriff. Let's talk."


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30**

"All right," Sheriff Potts sighed, running a hand over his face. Francie tilted her head to listen as she passed the jar back to Jack. She was feeling a measure of calm now, the sharp alcohol having done wonders to settle her nerves a bit. Additionally, simply standing next to Forrest made her feel considerably more secure than she had all day. She clasped her hands behind her back, resisting the urge to grab on to him.

"I want you boys to listen to me now, and listen good. I'm telling you as a friend that you need to get your asses out of town. Tonight."

"Leave?" Jack asked incredulously. "_Leave?"_

"Leave," the sheriff replied simply. Howard exchanged a look with Forrest, whose face was completely blank as he listened to Sheriff Potts. "When I came here today, it was with the intent to place Forrest here under arrest for the murder of Floyd Banner. Now, I personally believe y'all's story that one of them boys out there did it. However, nobody else is gonna accept that and now we've got a whole big pile of dead bodies out there."

"How could we be the ones gettin' fingered for Banner?" Jack demanded. "Everybody in this here town knows that we's all friends, that we's had plenty of business dealin's together. Why would we kill him?"

"Listen to me, boy," Sheriff Potts said, putting his hands on his hips. "The state of Virginia don't give a rat's ass about you or Floyd Banner. To the state, y'all boys are nothin' more than perfect criminals, and they'd be _glad_ to be rid of you. As for Banner, the state of Illinois feels the same way about him. Trust me when I tell you they ain't gonna much pursue his murder; they'll be happy to get _someone_, _anyone_, in jail and then leave it be. They ain't gonna lose no sleep over him. Now _his _family? That's a horse of a different color altogether."

"How do you mean?" Howard asked.

"The state of Virginia just wants you boys for somethin'. Anythin'. Everybody knows you're moonshiners and everyone suspects you got the law – that would be me – in your pocket, but they ain't got no proof of it. And generally, people are willin' to turn the other way when it comes to liquor and what not given its prevalence among, well –"

"Every fucking one," Howard said pointedly.

"But murder is an entirely different thing. People expect somethin' to be done about murders and those who commit them, and if the finger is bein' pointed at y'all they gon' expect the law to do somethin' about that."

"What does Banner's family have to do with it, though?" Jack pressed.

"As I said, neither the state of Virginia nor the state of Illinois gives two shits of one fuck about either of you. But his family will, and they gon' come after whoever was accused of doin' it, business dealings be damned." He looked at each brother in turn. "Now, you boys seem to be invincible but I don't care to know how well you'll hold up under a whole crime family comin' after you with their guns a-blazin', and they will be, believe that. That's where the whole y'all-skedaddlin'-out-of-town come into play."

"We leave and then what happens?" Forrest asked evenly.

"Y'all git the hell out of town and let me smooth this over. I'm sure I can figure somethin' out. Since that Lattimore fella has been a problem for a long time, maybe I can work it out so that they killed each other. All I know is that it's gonna take some real slick talkin' on my part and your asses outta here to work. Pretty rare anyone would follow you over state lines." He looked at them expectantly. "Are we all in accordance and agreement right now? 'Cause I'm supposed to come back in the morning to serve an arrest warrant and y'all _better_ not be here."

"Yeah, except for the one small detail bein' that we ain't got nowhere else to go!" Howard threw out his arms and made a show of looking around. "All we ever had is right here. We got my daddy's farm but that ain't no place to hide out, bein' that we wouldn't be moving but a few miles."

"I need you to be _not_ in this state," Sheriff Potts said impatiently. "That's what I'm tryin' to say."

"And what _I'm_ sayin' is that we ain't got nowhere to go," Howard returned in annoyance.

Francie had stood quietly at Forrest's side, listening, when something occurred to her. She opened her mouth to speak, then shut it, thinking her idea was a stupid one. Then again, the brothers weren't facing many options, and any idea – even potentially a bad one – was better than nothing.

"What is it?"

She jumped a little and looked up, startled to see Forrest looking down at her. She hadn't realized he'd been studying her. She glanced up, seeing the faces of the other men looking at her curiously.

"Well," she began hesitantly. "I-I might have a suggestion."

"Do tell, honey bunch," Howard said, a little sarcastically though she knew he meant her no malice. "I'm all ears."

"Before I share it, I need to go make sure that I have – the necessary paperwork," she said. "Excuse me."

She turned and hurried for the stairs, hearing the low murmurs of the brothers curiously wondering what it was that she was talking about. She took the stairs two at a time, easy to do in her ripped skirt that she could hardly believe she was still wearing, and hurried into her room. She grabbed the handle of her suitcase and hefted it onto her bed, throwing the lid open and rummaging through the contents. If memory served, she had placed what she was looking for underneath the lining of her suitcase that had come apart from the shell.

"What paperwork you lookin' for?"

For the second time in seemingly as many minutes, Francie jumped a little and turned, seeing Forrest in the doorway. _For such a large man, he can certainly move silently,_ she thought. "It's paperwork that – a-ha!" She triumphantly pulled a thin sheaf of papers from the bottom of her suitcase. They were yellowed and old, crinkled, but she held them up to the light from the sun leaking in through the blinds. The ink was still relatively clear and legible.

She turned to him with a smile and extended the sheaf of papers to him wordlessly. He held her gaze for a beat and then took the papers from her carefully between his large fingers and began to read over them. She bit at her lower lip as she watched his face. His eyes scanned over the papers once more and then he looked up at her.

"Your father's plantation?" he said quietly.

Francie nodded. "No one has really lived there since my father passed away. I moved into the Lattimore's townhouse as they felt that one plantation for one young woman was too much. I believe that after Thomas and I got married, they intended to claim the property for their own. And, well – I would never have been happy about that. This is my father's land. I wanted it to stay that way." She shook herself, realizing she had begun to ramble. "At any rate, there's no one living there now. You could take this deed and move there with your brothers. I could write up some sort of note leaving it to you and sign it with my father's name, if anyone would ask. I think you all would be safe out there. It is a few miles outside New Orleans, with no neighbors for at least five miles. It's quite remote."

"You'll come with us," Forrest said, and it wasn't a question.

Francie sighed and shook her head. "I can't," she whispered. "And you know I can't. If Virginia isn't safe for you, New Orleans, possibly all of Louisiana is not safe for me. Thomas is dead, yes, but his mother is still alive, and all of his contacts, and I would be essentially walking right back into the trap that they have been trying to so hard to pull me into." She stepped closer to him and reached up to touch his beard, and saw in his eyes the acceptance of her words as the truth.

"I must go on to New York as we previously discussed," she went on softly. "I have no kin there. No one who knows me. I will be much safer there than anywhere in the South. We do not know how long this will take to blow over, Forrest."

He was nodding, ever so slightly, but he wouldn't look at her. She kept her hand on his face, her fingers stroking his skin lightly.

"You're right," he finally said. "Don't mean I have to like it." The way he clenched his jaw, the muscle standing out against the palm of her hand, let her know how much he disliked it. "We could come to New York."

"We cannot risk all being together," Francie reminded him, although she knew he knew these things. "Rollins is still unaccounted for. He is aware of our connection. We don't know what information he could be feeding back to the authorities in Louisiana or elsewhere. If we were all caught together, Forrest, it would be the end. We must split up until…until we can be together again."

Forrest finally looked into her face, and though his features were calm, his eyes were stormy and full of some emotion she couldn't identify. _After all this_, she thought, _after all of this, I will still have to say goodbye to you._

"I promised you," he began, and his low voice was rich with quiet anger, "that I would always find you. Didn't I? This ain't gonna be no different. I am always gonna find you, so long's you want me to do so. So long's you'll wait for me. Which I wouldn't ask you to do. Not for me."

Francie frowned up at him, feeling the stirring of her own anger. Not wait for him? Was he mad? "I shall always wait for you, Forrest," she whispered fiercely, her eyes flashing up at him. "Never say that to me again. I shall always wait for you. You _did_ promise me that you would always find me, no matter what, and I expect you to keep your promise!"

She wasn't aware that she had gradually been raising her voice, but the sharpness with which the final word out of her mouth reverberated off the walls back into her ears embarrassed her slightly. A lump built in her throat and she felt her bottom lip beginning to tremble. She clenched her jaw against it and met his eyes. "You must always find me," she said, struggling and failing to keep her voice from breaking. "For if you don't, I shall always be lost."

"That goes for you, too," Forrest said gruffly, and tossed the papers onto the bed and pulled her against his body. "I need you to find me too. I was lost before you, I'll be lost after you."

Francie wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face against his chest. Lately it felt like every time would be the last time she saw or spoke to him, and it felt like they were always saying goodbye to each other. This time though, she knew that it was for real. This was goodbye. She squeezed her eyes shut, battling back tears, and tried to focus instead on the feeling of Forrest's large, strong arms around her body, the steady beat of his heart, his scent. And there was one more thing she never wanted to forget.

She lifted her head from his chest and pressed her palm to his cheek to encourage him to look at her, and then she was tasting his mouth, pulling on his lips with her own, pressing her fingertips to his chin to get him to open his mouth wider for her, being forward and eager because this was goodbye. She slipped her hand to the back of his head and pulled him closer, moaning softly into his mouth when she felt his tongue against hers and eagerly met his with her own, sliding softly and pulling at it, suckling it gently. She felt his hands gripping her waist, running all over her back before slipping under her sweater to graze her flesh. She desired the same and realized he was wearing too much clothing for such an endeavor. She shoved his suspenders off his shoulders and began unbuttoning his shirt. He pushed her against the wall, rolling his hips gently into hers and she knew this goodbye would be, had to be, more than just a few kisses.

He pulled away from her for a moment to shut and lock her door, and then just as quickly returned to her waiting arms. He reached for the ripped hem of her skirt and yanked it upward, pulling it over her hips and then reached down to grasp the back of her thighs and hoisted her up into the air. He pressed her back into the wall and she automatically wrapped her legs around his waist, clutching his shoulders and she began to pant with need. She tried to murmur his name but it was swallowed when he captured her lips again, and this time, he was urgent, desperate.

He pushed his hips against her again and she felt him large and thick with need for her. He reached a hand down to unbutton his trousers quickly to free himself, and a moment later she felt the delightfully smooth, soft skin over his blood-engorged member. His fingers brushed over her soft mound, swollen and wet, ready for him.

"Francie," he mumbled into her neck.

"Please," she whispered back, moving her sex over his hand to encourage him. Her walls shuddered preemptively, anticipating him. "Please, Forrest, now."

He lined up at her opening and then held her hips in both hands as he slowly began to push into her, a little bit at a time, leaning his forehead against hers as he went to watch how her eyes hazed in and out with every miniscule thrust he gave her. She let herself sink fully into her senses, to force herself to imprint every sensation into her memory so she would never forget what it was like to be filled completely by him. Her walls stretched wider to accommodate him, her pelvis tingling as he moved. Finally he immersed himself in her, pushing up even higher, and he hit a place so deep within her it made her practically move up the wall as she gasped sharply in his ear. Her inner fist gripped him tight and he groaned into her neck, his hands squeezing tight on her soft skin.

He pulled out of her very slowly, to feel her soft, wet walls slide along him tightly, before pushing back deep within her. She tilted her face down and bit his shoulder to muffle her cries as he repeated his movements, over and over and over, in a torturously slow manner. She felt he was trying to memorize exactly how she felt around him the way she was trying to memorize everything about him.

"Lift your head up," he whispered hoarsely. "Look at me."

Francie lifted her head and leaned it against the wall, meeting his heavily hooded eyes with her own. His gaze slipped lower and he gave her another command. "Open your sweater for me." With a sharp snap of his hips he was hitting that magical place deep inside her again and she keened softly. She reached a trembling hand for the buttons of her sweater, and slowly undid them as he watched, moving in and out of her in the slow, deep way that was going to drive her insane. She pulled her sweater apart and then immediately reached for her brassiere, knowing what it was he truly wanted. She pulled the straps down her arms to free her breasts and his eyes smoked over at the sight of them and the rhythm of his hips increased. She felt her pelvis contract at his new speed and she swallowed another loud moan as he leaned forward, his tongue swiping over her collarbones before trailing down to catch one of her dark pink, prominent nipples in his mouth. Her hands resumed their place, clutching at his shoulder, and she rolled her hips against him in time to his thrusts. The tingling between her legs grew hotter and her contracting muscles fluttered faster. A deep, hot explosion of pleasure rolled over her like an ocean wave, brought on by his hips and the way his full, sensuous lips looked wrapped around her nipple, tonguing it and nipping at it before closing around it and sucking. Her mouth fell open as her eyes squeezed shut, and it took every ounce of willpower not to scream out loud. She leaned against the wall as hips continued to thrust, as his lips continued to suckle at the sensitive rosebud on her full, round breast, helpless to do anything but accept the spasms of pleasure that made her body tighten and shudder.

"Forrest," she gasped as softly as she could manage. Her hands tightened on him. "Oh, Forrest, yes."

His eyes flew open at the sound of his name and he growled into her flesh before slowly pulling off her breast. He repositioned her hips to tilt toward him more and he leaned into her, aggressively capturing her lips in his, his tongue finding its home in her mouth as he snapped his hips into her hard, fast, and deep. Francie wrapped an arm around his neck and cupped his jaw in her other hand, trying to control her whimpers and glad for his mouth over hers. He kept it there until the end, until he almost broke her body with the force of his climax, crushing her into the wall, crushing her with his hands, and she felt a rush of warmth shoot up inside her. For a long time he kept her pinned to the wall, never taking his mouth from hers or withdrawing from her body, as if to unjoin their bodies would officially begin their ending.

Finally he pulled his mouth away and let her slip to the floor, reaching up to slip a hand under her curls as he leaned his forehead to hers, staring into her eyes. She noticed his hand was trembling slightly. She stared back into his eyes, wanting to speak but feeling as though she would ruin it. He tilted his head to bury his face in her neck again and his hand tightened in her curls while his other arm slipped around her waist. Francie felt her eyes burn, preparing themselves to be flooded with hot tears, but she fought them back despite her realization that Forrest was hugging her goodbye.

Slowly, he released her with a heavy sigh. He glanced at her disheveled and torn clothing. "You should change and get packed up," he said quietly. "Looks like we're all leavin' tonight."

"I don't really have much more to pack," Francie said sadly. "I suppose I've been preparing to leave for a few days now."

She reached for a dress and Forrest subtly turned around after fixing his own clothing and picking up the plantation deed from the bed. Francie dressed quickly and made sure that all of her things were in her suitcase. She snapped it shut and turned, seeing Forrest fishing something out of his pocket. He held it up, and she saw that it was her locket.

"My locket," she exclaimed. "Where did you get that? I thought it was gone, really and truly this time."

"Jack found it outside," Forrest replied. "Let me wash it and fix the clasp for you before you le– before I give it back."

Francie nodded, tightening her jaw as fresh pain filled her heart. "Yes. That would be very nice. Thank you."

"Let's go," Forrest said. "Kept 'em waiting long enough, I think."

As they descended the stairs, Francie couldn't fight a blush at the thought that they might have been overheard, no matter how quiet they had tried to be. At any rate, the fact that she was coming downstairs in a completely different outfit would probably serve as hint enough that something other than simply looking for a paper had happened.

Howard, Jack and Sheriff Potts had taken seats at one of the tables and were sharing the jar of brandy again. They looked up as Francie and Forrest walked into the room. Francie set her suitcase down on a nearby table and followed Forrest shyly over to the table. Jack looked a little confused, Sheriff Potts had an eyebrow raised and Howard was grinning.

"My, my," he said lightly. "Thought you two might have gotten lost upstairs." He made a show of eyeing Francie from head to toe. "Find the document you was lookin' for in her other skirt, Forrest?"

Forrest ignored him and placed the deed on the table. "Francie has been kind enough to give us the deed to her father's plantation," he said. "Says it's a quiet place, won't nobody bother us there. We can hunker down in the meantime while Sheriff Potts cleans this up. You two get your shit together and be ready to go by dusk."

"Miss Francie, you comin' too?" Jack asked.

Francie smiled sadly. "No, Jack," she said. "I'm going to New York. It's still too dangerous for me in Louisiana. But with any luck I'll see you again soon."

"You say it's this Mrs. Lattimore that's left that's a problem?" Sheriff Potts asked, glancing around. Francie nodded.

"Thomas's mother," she said. "She always hated me from day one. When all of this happened, I believe that it was her who sought Detective Rollins, not Thomas. She always seemed to control him and his thoughts and actions. She's one to be more afraid of than her son."

Sheriff Potts nodded thoughtfully. "Well. It just so happens that the sheriff of the Orleans parish is my third cousin, twice removed. And it just so happens that he owes me a favor." He glanced around again and noticed the expectant looks that encircled him. "I think if I head out there, I can talk with him, get him to apprehend and lock up this Mrs. Lattimore on attempted murder charges."

Francie's eyes widened. "Can you?" she asked breathlessly. "How will you prove that? Besides, with the Detective still unaccounted for, who knows what he will do?"

"That's where the favor part comes in," Sheriff Potts said. "Now, let's not get ahead of ourselves here. The first step is gettin' you all outta town before I come back here in the morning, warrant in hand. I'll work on the rest as I go. But don't plan to be back here before three months is over. Could be longer'n that."

His words hung heavily in the air, and Francie saw morose looks around the table that she knew matched her own. But there was no point in speaking of it now; they each understood what needed to be done, and crying about it certainly would not change a thing.

"Well," Howard said presently. He rose unsteadily to his feet. "Come, Brother Jack. We need to pack our personals and our trinkets if we gotta hit the road tonight."

Jack sighed and rose to his feet. "We'll be back in a little while," he said to his older brother. "Don't, uh – leave until we get back." He glanced at Francie and she was touched, knowing that the youngest Bondurant, one whom she'd come to regard as something like a little brother, wanted to say goodbye to her.

"Not until nightfall," Forrest replied.

Howard and Jack began to cross the wooden floors to the door. Francie reached out to pat Forrest's hand, then turned to ask Sheriff Potts a question. The question died on her lips when movement at the window caught her eye. Very quickly her brain reacted; she was startled, then calmed, thinking of Deputy Branson. But when a familiar face, with a curling mustache and a sadistic glint in his eyes appeared at the back door a moment later, kicking it in, she felt sheer panic.

It seemed then as if everything began to move very, very slowly. Detective Rollins aimed at Sheriff Potts and pulled the trigger, as Forrest wrenched his own pistol from his belt and brought it up. Sheriff Potts went over in the chair with a groan of pain just as Rollins swung the gun back toward Forrest. Forrest had already drawn bead and was already squeezing the trigger. Then –

_Click._

Francie's eyes went wide, realizing the gun was empty just as something like recall flashed through Forrest's pewter blue eyes, followed by a look of self-loathing as he lifted his eyes toward Rollins. Rollins allowed one smug, self-satisfied smile to cross his face before he pulled the trigger again.

Without thinking, Francie threw herself in front of Forrest.

A fiery, white-hot explosion of excruciating pain exploded through her chest and she heard her own surprisingly soft grunt before she fell to the floor. She stared dully into space as she heard a strange buzz of voices, a flurry of activity around her, but she remained still. She tried to get up, her brain screamed at her to get up, but her body refused to comply. She could see blood pooling around her and for a moment she was afraid, afraid for Sheriff Potts – he was bleeding so much, so heavily, it was reaching her. Then with a start, she realized it was hers.

It was her blood that was pooling around her.

Suddenly she was being jostled, and fresh waves of agony rolled over as she felt arms and hands pulling at her, and then she was staring up into Forrest's face. It held an expression unlike any she'd ever seen before, and she registered dimly that he was showing real emotion on his face now, his eyes fearful and wide, horror plain on his face as he looked down into hers. He was calling her name, over and over, commanding her to stay with him.

She wanted to form words, wanted to touch him, wanted to tell him how so very happy she was that he was alive, that he was all right, that he was safe. Her arms felt like lead, though, and somehow she had forgotten how to speak.

So, she just smiled up at him, memorizing his face, not hearing anything else except the slow, fading beat of her own heart until darkness like night fell over her, covering her, and she was sliding into its warm embrace, one as bittersweet as a tender goodbye from a lover.


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31**

Forrest watched as Rollins shot Sheriff Potts out of his chair, his hand moving of its own accord and yanking his revolver from his belt. He was so infuriated, so amazed at this man's audacity that he was literally seeing red. It would be just fine, though, he thought, lifting his pistol and drawing bead on the bastard's forehead. _Just fine. _He'd love to show this man precisely what happened to foolish men who tried to take what belonged to him.

As Rollins turned to face him, swinging his gun, Forrest coldly met his eyes and squeezed the trigger.

_Click_.

In an instant, Forrest could have shot himself for his own stupidity. _Stupid fucking bastard!_ he raged at himself. _No more bullets. No more bullets._

He stared down the barrel of Rollins' pistol, watching as the man smirked arrogantly at him. His meaty finger squeezed on the trigger and Forrest steeled himself.

_I can't die, _he reminded himself. _Can't happen._

The next thing he knew, he was almost knocked off his feet. Not from the force of the bullet - from a small body rushing into him from the side and shoving him aside.

_No_, he thought. "No!"

He watched in horror as the bullet slammed into Francie's chest. Her eyes went wide and she let out an audible grunt. Blood sprayed, and she slid to the floor.

In that moment, her bloody body was the only thing he saw and he rushed to her side and dropped to his knees beside her. For a moment he just stared at her. It was so hard to comprehend. Then he scrabbled at her, pulling her into his arms frantically.

Forrest was only dimly aware of his brothers shouting and rushing outside after the detective, who had inexplicably turned tail and run back out the way he had come. Forrest couldn't register anything at the moment besides the fact that the woman he loved was dying, perhaps had already just died, in his own arms.

He stared down into her face, her previously deep golden complexion having paled alarmingly to a waxy, colorless pallor. Her eyes were mostly closed, her equally colorless lips slightly open. A trickle of blood fell from one corner of her mouth and her chest was covered in blood. There was a hole just above her left breast. Over her heart.

Forrest gathered her up more tightly in his arms and pressed a hand firmly over the wound, his vision suddenly going blurry. Moisture seemed to be gathering in front of his eyeballs and he shook his head rapidly, feeling drops of water slip down his face. It was confusing; why couldn't he see?

"Francie, honey," he said, trying to sound gentle and it came out panicked, low and shaking. "Francie. Honey. Stay with me."

It was odd. He'd never before in his life referred to a woman by a term of endearment, not even Maggie. But that night that Francie had been attacked outside Miz Judy's, it had just come out. Rolled right on out of his mouth, over his tongue and between his lips like he'd been born to say it. And she had seemed to like it. She had always seemed to light up when he would say it to her, her big blue eyes widening and a little blush creeping into her cheeks, and she would give him that sweet smile that could make a man commit murder just to see it aimed at himself one more time.

But she wasn't lighting up now. She wasn't responding at all, and he wasn't sure that she could even hear him. He pulled her up close to his face, and pressed his cheek to hers. Her skin was growing cool. But when he listened hard, he could hear the faint, wheezing intake of her breathing, shallow though it was.

"Honey," he said tightly. "Francie, my sweet girl, I need you to stay with me. I need you to fight. Fight for me, honey."

_Damn her,_ he thought angrily. Damn her for throwing her body in front of him, for knocking him aside. Didn't she know that he was couldn't die? That there was no amount of bullets that could end his existence? If she would have just stayed away...everything would have been fine. She would be alive and well, and it would all be fine.

"Damn you, woman," he said hoarsely, and all of a sudden his eyes were blurry again.

He vaguely registered shouting from outside, and now that the door was open he could smell the odor of burning human skin. It was a curious odor; one that was somehow strangely familiar although he could not recall ever in his life smelling it before.

A sliding noise and movement to his right made him look up. He saw Sheriff Potts pulling himself along the floor toward him, blood oozing from his right shoulder.

"I'm fine," he rasped. "Is she dead?"

"Not - no," Forrest answered, gathering her protectively against his body once more. She was still breathing shallowly and when he put two fingers to her throat, he felt a faint heartbeat. She was still holding on.

"Forrest, we got 'im!" Jack's maliciously exuberant shout met his ears from outside and set a cold anger licking through him the way a flame consumes a scrap of paper. "We got 'im!"

"You can drive?" Forrest grunted to the sheriff. The sheriff nodded hesitantly. "Take her to the hospital. Right now. Drive as fuckin' fast as you can."

The sheriff stared at him with wide eyes but nodded rapidly. "Yeah, of course, Forrest."

Forrest cupped Francie's pale face and leaned down, kissing her lips. He tasted her blood but he didn't care. He didn't wipe his mouth. He nuzzled her cheek, squeezing his eyes tightly against more of that annoying damp blurriness coating his eyeballs.

"You hang on for me, honey," he whispered against her skin. "You hang on. Don't you leave me. Don't you do it."

He struggled to his knees, balancing her deadweight carefully so as not to potentially cause further damage. Sheriff Potts moved to take her, growling in pain.

"I've got her," he gasped, grasping her with his good arm. He gritted his teeth against the pain in his wounded shoulder and used that arm to scoop up her knees. For a moment he went white with pain but he shook himself. He nodded to Forrest and he could see the absolute agony on the man's face, but the sheriff nonetheless valiantly carried her through the door, past the still-flaming remnants of the intruding sedans, and out to his car outside.

Forest watched them go, watching the long, dangling black curls that fell over the sheriff's arm, watched the small delicate feet that hung over his other arm, watched every bit of her that he could see with an aching heart until he could see them no more. He waited patiently until he heard the sound of a car motor start, and then the squeal of tires as the sheriff sped off.

Forrest turned and headed for the back door, into the acrid cloud of burning flesh, and down the back stairs. He felt more droplets of moisture rolling down his face but he clenched his jaw and did not brush them away.

The bodies of the men that they had killed still burned in a heap. Aside from the smell, the sound of the fire, crackling and snapping and popping, was almost merry and reminded Forrest suddenly of autumn in the County, sitting by bonfires with his brothers and listening to them tell stories and laugh and carry on.

He noticed with a sigh that Deputy Branson was lying motionless on the ground, a bullet hole punched neatly into the back of his skull. He wouldn't burn, though; Forrest would let Sheriff Potts determine how he wanted to handle it.

His brothers had the man who had tried to take everything face down in the dirt and Forrest wondered how many men he would see that way in one day. Howard had a hold of one of Rollins' arms, yanking it forward. Jack had a boot on Rollins' head, pressing the side of his face into the ground. Forrest stood over him, staring down into the detective's hatefully defiant eyes.

He glanced up into each of his brothers' faces. Jack's eyes were red and damp and he looked so angry; he'd never seen such an expression of heartbroken anger on his baby brother's face before, except for the day they learned that Rakes had killed his best friend, Cricket Pate. Howard's entire body was trembling with rage, his chin quivering and his pale green eyes flashing as he yanked forward on Rollin's arm. The man, to his credit, only let out a strangled grunt instead of the howl that any lesser man would have wailed out.

Forrest crouched down next to the man and eyed him. Rollins stared back up at him unflinchingly despite the fact that Jack's boot was pressing down on his temple. Forrest was in an odd way impressed with his bravery. His stupid, stupid bravery that would only serve to end his miserable existence.

"Was it worth it?" he asked Rollins quietly. "This - chase. Was it worth it?"

"I believe," Rollins managed, "that is also a question in order for you as well." He struggled to turn his head a little higher up. "Was the allure of that sweet, murdering, thieving, deceptive little negress whore worth all of this?"

Forrest spat on the ground next to his head. "I b'lieve you are tryin' to vex me and speed up the inevitable. But I assure you, Detective, I've got plenty of time to make your death a slow one. It'd be my pleasure, indeed."

"You only have plenty of time if you don't care about watching your lover die in the hospital," Rollins whispered. "Unless she's already dead now." He huffed out a hoarse laugh. "If she's not dead yet, I don't imagine it will take too much longer. But to answer your question, my dear Mr. Bondurant, yes. It was worth it. At first it was about money, you see. But then you got involved. And you insulted me by ruining my payday and breaking my nose and several of my teeth in the process. Then this whole thing became purely enjoyable. I enjoyed stalking her like a cat, and she my tiny prey. It was delicious, the look on both of your faces when I shot her." He made a show of licking his lips. "I can still taste it."

Forrest pondered his words, especially the part about Francie's time being limited as he slipped his brass knuckles onto his hand and determined that the man had a point As far as that went. "Let 'im up," he ordered his brothers softly. "Let 'im up."

Howard and Jack released the man on the ground and backed up. Forrest didn't need any man he was squaring off against, especially one he intended to kill, to be held by another man.

"Dig a hole," he added. "And make it quick." His brothers paused to look at them doubtfully but he waved them on. They disappeared around the corner of the station to get shovels from the shed.

Rollins was struggling to his feet, and pulling his revolver out of his belt. He lifted it and pointed at Forrest.

"You stupid, stupid hick," he spat. "You'll be following her soon enough because your idiot brothers weren't smart enough to look for my gun." He shook his head contemptuously. "You backwoods, nigger-loving pieces of bootlegging shit -"

He was still talking when Forrest rushed him and swung as hard as he could with every ounce of his considerable strength. His knuckles connected with the man's temple, sending his large body stumbling away but he didn't fall. Forrest was on him again quickly, grabbing his collar and smashing the knuckles into the middle of his face. Rollins reeled back, choking on his own blood. He went down to his knees, and Forrest gathered the front of the detective's suit and hauled him in close, staring into his eyes that were fading in and out.

"While you suck in your last breaths, six feet under," he said softly, "and your lungs are burning and you're wishin' I would have just shot you, I want you to think back and reflect on how much fun you been havin' these last days, weeks, and let that sustain you until you die."

He straightened up and began dragging the man like he weighed nothing more than a sack of the potatoes he dragged to the still to make moonshine. He dragged Rollins, half-conscious, out to where his brothers had just finished digging the hole he had requested.

"If you - just want to - kill me," Rollins rasped, his eyes rolling at the sight of the hole, "just - shoot me!"

"No, sir," Forrest said calmly. "You dug this hole, now you lay in it." He shoved the man unceremoniously toward the grave and then helped him in with a boot to the back. He fetched another shovel and assisted his brothers in shoveling the dirt and packing it in nice and tight.

His anger satiated, he allowed his sorrow to return. "I'm goin' to the hospital," he muttered to his brothers. They silently accompanied him, Howard taking up his place in the bed of the truck.

"Uh, Forrest, you want me to drive?" Jack asked hesitantly.

"No," Forrest replied, and got behind the wheel. He sped toward town, and vaguely noticed that Howard didn't even bitch this time. Now that Forrest had handled the situation concerning the detective in the manner in which he felt appropriate, he was back to feeling sick and worried, and the road went blurry again. He swiped his hand over his eyes quickly, hoping Jack wouldn't notice. If he did, he did not mention it and for that, Forrest was grateful.

It seemed only a matter of moments before Forrest reached the hospital. He saw Sheriff Potts' car parked out front and a little trail of blood on the ground and leading up the steps to the front doors of the hospital. Whether it was Potts' or Francie's, he didn't know.

He burst through the door, Jack and Howard on his heels. A nurse met them immediately, recognizing them.

"Where is she?" Forrest demanded.

"Doctor Nelson is in with her now, he's digging the bullet out of her," the nurse replied, and Forrest inwardly winced at the term "digging". "She's still alive, just barely hanging on, but it's a very delicate procedure, you understand."

"How much longer?" he asked quietly.

"He found the main bullet already, but there are a few small fragments which are much trickier," the nurse said. "And she's lost a lot of blood. She needs a transfusion as well."

"And Sheriff Potts?" Forrest felt if he continued to talk about Francie and her condition his eyes would begin that annoying blurriness again.

"Sheriff Potts took a bullet to his right shoulder, but he's fine. He's resting for now."

Forrest nodded and sat down in a chair. "I'll be right here when Miss Abellard is all set. As soon as I can see her, I 'spect you'll come and let me know that."

The nurse nodded uncertainly and moved away down the hall, into one of the rooms. Howard glanced down at him.

"So what's this mean for our gettin' out of town plans?" he asked.

"You two can go wherever you want," Forrest said evenly. "I ain't goin' anywhere just now."

"But the sheriff said we needed to git, or else he has to arrest you, maybe all of us in the morning," Jack pointed out gently. After a moment, he said, "She - she wouldn't have wanted that, Forrest. I know it."

It was the wrong thing to say in that moment. Forrest slowly turned to face his baby brother, his eyes boring into Jack's suddenly nervous hazel ones, and Jack glanced away.

They sat silently like that for what felt like hours; indeed, the sun let Forrest know it was dusk before Doctor Nelson was coming out of a room down the hall. Sheriff Potts, tucked away in another room, must have seen him passing because a moment later, the bedraggled sheriff appeared in the hallway as well, looking ridiculous with his ass hanging out of his hospital gown and his arm in a sling. He quickly joined them as the Bondurant brothers rose to their feet.

"She's - she's bad off, Forrest," Doc Nelson said, getting right to the point. Forrest was not at all sure whether to thank him or punch him for that, as his words hit him like a slug to the jaw. "I've done my best for her, I've got all the bullet fragments out, but she's lost so much blood - so much. We simply don't have enough on hand in this hospital. If she doesn't get more blood soon, she will die. I'm sorry."

"She can have my blood," Jack piped up immediately. "She can have mine."

"Doctor, we're willin' to give as much blood as she needs," Forrest said quietly.

The doctor reached out to pat Jack's shoulder and nod at Forrest. "Very kind and thoughtful of you both. She would be touched, I'm sure. But unfortunately Miss Abellard has an extremely rare blood type, and this blood is only kept in stock at larger hospitals. She needs to go to Roanoke."

"Well, how do you know our blood won't work?" Jack exclaimed. "How do you know we ain't got the same type?"

"On account of the fact that I have personally seen you boys more times in the past year than I care to," the doctor said dryly. "I know more about your anatomies than really any person should. Miss Abellard is AB-. None of you boys are, and none of you have type O blood, which is the universal donor. Trust me, I have checked."

"Then let's get her to Roanoke," Sheriff Potts spoke up. "I'll take her myself."

"You're not going anywhere but back to bed," Doc Nelson said sternly. "And I will send her as soon as I can. I'm hoping she will improve some more before I do that."

"I need to see her," Forrest said simply.

To his credit, Doc Nelson did not argue. He simply nodded and turned, motioning for Forrest to follow. He led Forrest to a room down the hall, then patted his shoulder.

"I'll give you some privacy, but holler if something changes."

Forrest approached her bed. She looked small and frail, her face still a lifeless waxy color. She was breathing on her own, but it was shallow. So very shallow.

He pulled a chair right up next to her bed and just stared at her for a moment, taking in the bloody bandage on her chest, the color of her skin, the way she hadn't opened her eyes or even stirred at all when he'd come in. Finally, he reached out to take her hand.

He hated himself suddenly, hated himself for letting her be in this state, hated himself for being so helpless. He unconsciously squeezed down on her hand and leaned down to brush her temple with his lips.

"Why did you do it?" he whispered softly in her ear. "Why did you do it? Don't you know I'm a survivor? I'm the one that lives through everything, not you. Don't you know that I can withstand this shit? I'm strong enough for it, I'm strong enough to withstand bullets and knives. But I ain't -" His throat tightened and he cleared it, feeling that annoying sting in his eyes. "I ain't strong enough to lose you, Francesca. So you better fight. You better hang on and wait until you get that blood. If you don't - if you don't, I'm gon' always be lost. If you ain't here to find me, or for me to find you...I'm gon' always be lost."

He brought her hand to his lips, then cradled it in both of his hands, leaning his forehead to rest on them and shutting his eyes. He had no idea how long he stayed that way, until Howard was coming to fetch him.

"Talk to you out here?" he asked quietly.

Forrest nodded and rose from his seat. He leaned over Francie and kissed her forehead, her cheek, her hand. He leaned down and spoke into her ear.

"You fight like you ain't never fought before in your life," he whispered. "I love you."

He kissed her pale, colorless lips, long and firm and sweet, before he finally released her and walked out of the room. Howard patted his shoulder awkwardly.

"Listen, Potts is leavin' the hospital, says he don't give a damn about no doctor's orders. Said our plan still stands and we need to git before they send the whole state of Virginia after us. We gotta leave now, Forrest."

"And what about her?" Forrest asked coolly. "You think I'm just gonna leave her?"

"You got to, anyway," Howard said gently. "They're sendin' her to Roanoke tonight, doc says she can't wait much longer or she just ain't gonna make it. There's nothin' else he can do for her, Forrest, she has to get to the bigger hospital as soon as she can if she has any chance of livin'."

Forrest understood the truth in his brother's words and knew that there was nothing more for him to do. Francie had to leave right away, and he couldn't accompany her to Roanoke without likely being arrested on the way.

He glanced down the hallway where Sheriff Potts, now dressed in his normal clothing with his backside now blessedly covered, was still arguing with the doctor. With a final glance back at Francie, he sighed and headed over to join them.

"Forrest, it's getting dark now," Sheriff Potts said urgently. "Y'all boys need to be gettin' the hell on."

"We need to pack some things, then we'll leave," Forrest said quietly. He glanced at his brothers. "Get out to the farm and get what you want. Meet me back at the station and then we'll leave."

"Forrest, I want to say goodbye," Jack said softly. "To Miss Francie. Please, can I say goodbye?"

He suddenly sounded so young, his baby brother. Forrest nodded, and Jack went off down the hall. He glanced at Doc Nelson, a man who had always taken his vow to heal the sick and injured very seriously and never passed judgment on the activities of those who needed his help. He had been a friend to Forrest and his brothers and shown them great kindness when they needed it.

He took a few steps toward the good doctor, catching his eye. He stopped and stood almost nose to nose with him and stared into his eyes unflinchingly.

"I trust, Doctor," he began in a low voice, "that you know what you're talking about when it comes to what is best for Miss Abellard."

"Yes, yes, of course, Forrest," Doctor Nelson said quickly.

"Takin' her on an hour drive over a rough road seems like a dangerous thing," Forrest went on. "I'm sure you would agree."

"Well," the doctor said slowly. "She is in a precarious state."

"This is the only way?" Forrest asked even though he knew the answer.

"It's the only way," Doctor Nelson said gently. "She dies without the blood. I won't lie to you; she could very well die on the way. But it's a certainty if she stays here."

"I want you to personally see her to Roanoke," Forrest said, "and I want you to make sure she gets there alive."

"I will certainly do what I can, Forrest, but you need to accept the fact -"

"I ain't acceptin' anything short of seein' her alive again one day," Forrest said softly. "I hope you take my meanin' to be clear."

It was a veiled threat, but the way that the good Doc Nelson's face paled indicated that he did, indeed, take Forrest's meaning to be crystal clear.

At that moment Jack came striding down the hall out of Francie's room, his hazel eyes red from crying. He wiped his face with the back of his hand. He stopped to look at Sheriff Potts.

"You'll talk to Bertha like you promised?" he asked and he still sounded so young. "You'll tell her I'll be back for her one day soon, that I still want to marry her?"

Sheriff Potts reached out and patted his shoulder. "Yes, Jack, I promise." He glanced at Forrest. "Forrest, I hate to rush you along -"

"We're going, now," Forrest said. "Howard, Jack, let's go." He glanced at the doctor. "I'll wait to hear from you."

The doctor nodded nervously, then turned to his nurses. "Prepare Miss Abellard for transport to Roanoke. We need to leave immediately." He glanced back at Forrest. "I'll send word, as soon as I can."

Forrest nodded, and suddenly he couldn't stand to be in the hospital for a moment longer. He followed his brothers outside into the early twilight, realizing that he was in his last few moments of the state, the town he'd spent his entire life in. Strangely, though, Virginia was not the one to whom he was bidding goodbye.

_Fight for me, my sweet girl,_ he thought. _Fight for me and let me find you again. Don't let me be lost._

His eyes stung so badly and the blurring of his vision was so heavy he decided to let Jack drive.


	32. Chapter 32

**A/N: Er, happy Monday...? Leave me reviews. Don't hate me. **

**Chapter 32**

It was mid-morning when they arrived at Francie's father's plantation. The three brothers each drove once in approximately five-hour shifts, and Forrest could barely remember his. It was like he took the wheel, and then he blinked, and then they were there, at the sprawling plantation that Francie's daddy's daddy's daddy's daddy had built.

He tried not to allow himself to think of her; he tried to force it from his mind because he knew it would only drive him insane. But with his brothers not talking, for once, there was nothing else to do but be consumed by his thoughts and his worry.

Forrest considered himself a practical, straight-forward, no-nonsense type of man, one who rarely dwelled on the things he could not change. But now, he could not seem to stop obsessing over what he should have done, what he _could_ have done, how he could have acted differently to save Francie's life. It was maddening and it was breaking him down. And now, she was in the hands of someone other than himself, someone who was responsible for her life. She could very well be dead right now, per what the doctor had told him. He had left with Francie shortly after the brothers had departed the hospital. That meant that Francie should be in Roanoke right now. Forrest had no idea how long a transfusion took, had no idea how much blood she needed, but the hours that stretched tore his mind and heart apart. Was she alive and doing better now? Was that golden ruddiness back in her skin, were her cheeks pink again? Were those big, crystalline eyes of hers bright and blue once more, and were her beautiful lips, the thought of which even now made his heart ache, back to their normal healthy shade of dark pink?

Or, Forrest wondered, had she been dead these last fifteen hours? Had she even made it to the hospital? If she had, had the transfusion even worked? Maybe she had died during the transfusion.

It was torture, pure and simple, not knowing what had become of her. Worse torture than what Rollins was probably experiencing right now buried six feet under, if he were not already mercifully dead.

Sheriff Potts had told them to get to the plantation and lay low. He would be taking a train to New Orleans to speak with the sheriff, his third cousin twice removed, about getting Mrs. Lattimore on attempted murder charges. It would be a bit of a stretch, as there was not a great deal of evidence to go off of, but he had managed to find some documents from Mrs. Lattimore to Detective Rollins after a thorough search through Rollins' boarding room. Sheriff Potts had been assured that the sheriff of the Orleans parish would be able to work with that. He told the boys that as soon as he saw his work finished, he would come and visit them at the plantation.

In the meantime, they set about to settling into the home. It was clearly old, dating back to the late eighteenth century, but Francie's father, Beauregard, had obviously worked hard to keep it in top shape. It had been unlived in for a year, after Beauregard had died and Francie had moved to town. The lawn was overgrown, as was the shrubbery. Weather had worn the paint on the fence surrounding the property, but the house itself still looked well-kept.

The interior of the house was even better, if dusty, with shiny oak floors, unblemished and smooth. There was an expansive kitchen, a dining room, and a large parlor. Each was filled with clearly handcrafted oak furnishings like sideboards, tables and chairs and various other things. The parlor was filled with finely upholstered walnut furniture, sofas and chairs. There was a large Persian rug on the floor as well, and suddenly Forrest could see a young Miss Francesca Fontaine, sitting primly on one of the sofas, taking tea with her peers. The mental image almost made him smile.

Upstairs, there were four bedrooms, including a master bedroom. There was also a newly done bathroom. Beauregard Fontaine must have invested in the indoor plumbing craze and done away with usage of the outhouse, despite the fact that it would have cost a pretty penny (as Forrest knew from personal experience). Each bedroom had a large four-poster oak bed, an oak armoire and a desk. Without a wife and only one child, Forrest wondered why the man had so many bedrooms, but perhaps he enjoyed entertaining. Either way, it was convenient for him and his brothers. He had not been looking forward to sharing a room with Jack, who insisted on jabbering on about God only knew what until the wee hours of the night like a school girl, or Howard, who snored horribly in between bouts of nightmares left over from the War.

His brothers had argued over who would occupy the lavish master bedroom, but Forrest chose the smallest room for himself. He was accustomed to sleeping in a full-size bed with one pillow and one blanket, so anything beyond that was out of his realm of interest. Besides, without Francie's warm body next to his, he did not care if he slept in a corner of the cold cellar on the grounds.

They had brought some supplies with them, as much of their foodstuffs from the station as they could manage – sacks of flour, cornmeal and potatoes. They had beef jerky and plenty of canned items – vegetables and stews. It was certainly poor fare, mediocre at best, but it didn't matter to any of them. Forrest had very little appetite, Howard was accustomed to roughing it on scant rations, and Jack was just happy to have something. The sheriff had also promised to bring them some things like milk and fresh meat for the icebox when he came, whenever that would be. Sheriff Potts had promised that he would along as soon as he could.

The first few days at the plantation were relatively peaceful. Jack and Howard went out to explore the land a bit. It was apparent that Beauregard had had horses at one time, as he had enormous, expansive pastures on his private land. His horses had either been stolen or given away before he died; all that remained was a grand stable with ten stalls on either side. Behind the house was a thick wooded area, and beyond that was a swamp, common to this part of the South.

With his brothers out of the house, exploring the land and daydreaming about places to put stills if they ever had the opportunity to stay permanently, Forrest went over his ledgers and counted and re-counted their money obsessively, just to give his mind something to do. He appreciated the fact that he could now be alone with his own thoughts, even though they were threatening to drive him insane. He told himself to be patient; they had only just arrived, and the sheriff still needed time to get the Lattimore woman taken care of, and the doctor still needed to send word. Being that Sheriff Potts had left shortly after they had, there was no guarantee he had any news yet of Francie's condition. The doctor had promised to see Francie to Roanoke, but he would not be able to stay by her side at the bigger hospital. He had his own patients to tend to in Franklin County. That meant that the doctor himself would have to wait for word from Roanoke, and then send a telegram to New Orleans for the sheriff, who would have to then come and find them.

Forrest told himself all of these things as his own effort put forth in order to find mental and emotional peace, but he realized he was only fooling himself. Until he knew for certain whether or not he would ever be able to look into her face again, into those lively blue eyes and see her smile sweetly for him, there would be no peace.

As it was, being in her childhood home, in fact, her home up until a year or so ago, was torment. He knew which bedroom had been hers immediately, and thankfully neither of his brothers claimed it. It was still kept in the way that she had presumably left it, with soft, pretty floral bedding and furniture that had been painted a pristine white. The ruffled, pale yellow curtains over the window were left parted, and Forrest imagined she had always wanted it that way. At the station, she had always left the curtains parted a little bit, to let the natural light flow in. There were no clothes or shoes left in the closets or the large, white armoire, but on what had once been her vanity there was an old bottle of perfume, one that was almost empty. Forrest had made the mistake of opening and smelling it, and suddenly, it was _her_ in that room with him, _her_ in his senses and all around him without actually being there, and it had made him lightheaded and his throat had tightened up. He replaced the bottle and left the room, shutting the door, and it was silently clear he meant for no one to go in there again.

That night, he pulled Francie's locket out of his sweater pocket and set about cleaning off the remnants of her blood from the chain, and polished it up as best he could to make it look shiny and new for her again. There were still scorch marks on it, the origin of which were still a mystery to him, but otherwise he was successful in his endeavor. He tightened the clasp again, this time doing a more thorough job of it as the damage was greater than before. He assumed Thomas had ripped it from her throat, as the closure was bent out of alignment. He labored over it, ignoring a growing ache in his neck from its bent position, and worked at it patiently in his room to ensure it was fully repaired. He did not want her to risk losing it again when he was able to give it back to her. _If_ he was able to give it back to her.

As the hours stretched past the first day, into the late night of the second, he knew his brothers were concerned about them. Forrest had hardly uttered a word to them since they had claimed the house and he had kept to himself. He only ate when he realized he had not done so for an extended period of time, and even then, whatever he ate tasted like sawdust. It did not really help that Jack was the primary cook, having been forced to the position by Howard who insisted that his baby brother needed to finally learn how to do something other than boil water. Forrest ate whatever was left on his own time, since his brothers knew better than to disturb him, and went on about his business silently.

His patience and quiet, however, only held out so long. Three days later, Forrest was ready to tear the city down to find the sheriff himself. The plantation had a telephone, but it was currently not functional. He could not call the hospital in Roanoke. And if he could not place a call, how could he receive one? He could not eat or sleep, and on the third day he decided he could wait no longer and stormed through the house to the front door, intending to drive to New Orleans and walk through the streets screaming for Sheriff Potts if he had to. There was no reason in the world, he raged to Howard and Jack, for something so important to take _this_ goddamn long.

It took both of his brothers to physically restrain him – in and of itself not an easy feat even with both of them holding him – from leaving the plantation to go into New Orleans, both of them begging and pleading and pointing out that the purpose of their time there was to hide, while Sheriff Potts set things in order for them. He could not go gallivanting into town, they said, and reveal himself. People in New Orleans knew who they were just like people in Virginia.

Heaving and red with rage, Forrest had locked himself in an office in the house, slamming the door almost off its hinges.

:O:O:O:

Five days came and went.

Finally, on the sixth day, Sheriff Potts arrived at the plantation. Jack was sitting on the front porch and Howard was in the kitchen. Forrest had been upstairs but at the sound of the motor, he left his room and made his way down the stairs. He pulled a toothpick from his pocket and slowly placed it between his lips as he leaned in the doorframe behind the screen door. Howard joined him at the door, eyeing the sheriff as he climbed out of the truck he was driving.

"Looks like he brought us supplies like he said he would," Howard observed, nodding to the bed of the truck. There were more bags of flour, meal and potatoes, some vegetables, meat and more canned goods. There were clothes for all three brothers, shoes and hats. There were even a few crates of moonshine in jars.

Forrest pushed the screen door open and he and Howard stepped onto the porch. Sheriff Potts crossed the lawn toward them, and Forrest could see that he held a small folded piece of paper in his hand. The sheriff glanced up at them and nodded, sweeping his hat off head.

"Hi there, boys," he said. "How y'all been?"

"Fine, got settled in all right," Howard said. Sheriff Potts' eyes fell on Forrest, who was watching him silently.

"Good to hear," Sheriff Potts said. "I brung y'all some things to hold you over. I got some good news as well." Forrest's ears perked up, but the news that the sheriff shared was not the news he especially wanted to hear. "My third cousin, the one who's sheriff over in Orleans parish, went ahead and got the Lattimore woman on attempted murder charges. Granted, all he had to go off of was the documents between her and that Rollins feller, but the District Attorney felt that it was just enough, so she is in jail. That woman there ain't gonna see the light of day for a long, long time. And when she does she'll be too damn old to lift a finger."

He kept his tone deliberately light, but the intense stare from Forrest, and not to mention the haggard look about him, let him know that any news shy of Francie being alive and recovered was not going to sit well.

"Well, that's just great," Jack said, forcing enthusiasm. "Ain't that great, Howard? Forrest?"

"That's swell," Howard chimed in, casting a nervous glance at his younger brother.

"Ain't got to worry about her no more," Jack added.

"Sheriff," Forrest said finally, his voice rumbling out slowly. He shuffled the toothpick around in his mouth. "Why don't you get to the point."

Sheriff Potts swallowed. He extended his arm with the paper in it. "Here, Forrest. I just received this this morning. I didn't open it. Go on."

Forrest reached out and grabbed the telegram with a surprisingly steady hand despite how his heart suddenly sped up to an inhuman pace and he felt his stomach go cold and shaky. He clenched the toothpick between his teeth and he tore the telegram open and began to read.

_Sorry for the delay STOP Impossible to get clear information STOP Brought the girl to Roanoke hospital STOP Big fire at town hotel STOP Lot of people hurt hospital overflowing STOP Finally got word from an orderly this morning STOP She did not make it STOP Please tell the boys STOP especially Forrest STOP how sorry I am STOP_

Forrest felt curiously numb. He read the note three more times, becoming increasingly aware that all eyes were on him and that he was gripping the paper so hard, his thumbnails went white.

"F-Forrest?" Jack asked tentatively.

"What's it say, little brother?" Howard asked him quietly.

_She did not make it_

For a long time, Forrest just looked at the note. Then he glanced up at the sheriff, how he was holding his hat in his hand, against his chest, watching Forrest's face carefully. He lifted his eyes to the sad countenance of the man's face and noticed the way he seemed to be having difficulty forming words. The sheriff cleared his throat.

"Uh, Forrest…"

He trailed off, his eyes going wide at the expression in Forrest's stormy pewter eyes. Forrest stared back at the sheriff for a long time, hardly registering Jack's sudden, grieved wheeze followed by a choking sob, and Howard repeatedly clearing his throat. He tightened his jaw, and his toothpick snapped in his mouth.

_She did not make it_

She was dead.

He crumpled the telegram violently and threw it hard down onto the porch, spitting his broken toothpick out after it. He did not need or want to hear the words spoken out loud. He turned silently, and stormed through the house to the back door and slammed through it, heading into woods behind the house.

_She did not make it_.

Forrest moved through the woods and out by the swamp. He found a tree stump to sit down on and stared out at the murky water, listening to his blood rush in his veins and feeling his heart jerk irregularly in his chest.

_She did not make it. _Francie was dead.

He repeated the words to himself, over and over, before lowering his head until his chin touched his chest and he let that stinging, blurring feeling take him over. It did not matter how long he stayed out here. There was nothing to get up for now. He knew his brothers would come looking for him eventually, but he hoped he'd never be found. He knew he _could_ never be found, because now he was forever lost.

:O:O:O:

_Franklin County, Virginia, Fall 1932_

Sheriff Potts was true to his word.

Between the state's willingness to look the other way in the murder of a well-known criminal and the generally lax law enforcement practice in the smaller areas, he got the Bondurant brothers home in a few months' time. He spun an elaborate situation on the spool of his office, stating formally that Mrs. Lattimore and her son, Thomas Lattimore, conspired to commit murder of an innocent woman with the help of a private investigator by the name of Detective Chester Rollins. While investigating the young woman's whereabouts, Detective Rollins interviewed one Floyd "Mad Dog" Banner, discovering that the young woman in question was a lover of a business associate of the Chicago mobster. Mr. Banner was not forthcoming with the requested information, and the two exchanged some very heated words, and the Detective shot and killed him. Next, the Detective returned to the station, finding both the young woman and Thomas Lattimore on the premises. By now, Sheriff Potts reported, Deputy Branson had arrived on the scene after receiving word from an anonymous source that the young woman was in danger. Deputy Branson shot and killed the young Mr. Lattimore, just as Detective Rollins appeared on the scene. Unfortunately, Detective Rollins shot and killed the young woman, identified as one Francesca Abellard, before fatally shooting Deputy Branson. However, the brave deputy was able to fire off a shot that ended the private investigator's life.

Sheriff Potts smoothly cleared Blackwater Station of all bodies, including the body of the actually-suffocated Detective Rollins, unearthing his body from its hastily dug grave. He had all the remains of the other men disposed of, though there was not much left. He had Detective Rollins' body cremated, regretfully before an autopsy could be performed, and Deputy Branson was given an official funeral with all customs, honors and courtesies. In a nutshell, Sheriff Potts had told the Bondurant brothers in exhaustion, they were free and clear to come on home.

They settled back into their life at the station and on their father's farm. They fixed all of the damage done to the station from the fire, and rebuilt the storage shed for the third time. They resumed their normal bootlegging activities as before, and it was good to be home.

Good to Jack and Howard; Forrest was a silent shell of the man he'd once been.

On the outside, he was exactly the same. He looked the same, he spoke the same, he was just as burly and imposing as he'd always been. The thing that frightened his brothers was the inner change. Forrest as they knew him, _really_ knew him, the strong middle brother of the Bondurant clan and the brains behind their moonshine operation, died the day that Francie had. He only spoke when spoken to, or when he was conducting business – and that in and of itself was falling by the wayside. He kept to himself at all times he could; he just did not seem to care about anything anymore.

Howard and Jack were concerned about him, to say the very least, but kept their worries to themselves. Forrest would not talk to them anyway, and it would do no good to try to draw him out in conversation. It was hard to imagine that he would want to continue to live on at the station, with reminders of _her_ presence everywhere.

But he did continue to live there, and he acted like none of it mattered. But when he was alone at the station, it mattered. It mattered a great deal to him. He left the room she had occupied alone. Her suitcase remained opened on the bed as it had been since that night she had dug through it for the deed to the plantation. Her things, her silks and wools and cottons and leathers, had spent three months in the path of the streaming sun through her still-parted curtains. Some of the fabrics were yellowed by now. Her dog-eared copy of _Lady Chatterley's Lover_, still on the bed, was the only thing of hers that Forrest took. He tried to read it, but it proved to be much too difficult because he thought of her, and he could smell her on the pages. He returned to her room only to throw it in her suitcase on top of her things, and shut the door again.

One of their first nights back, it rained, a warm, heavy rain signaling summer's end and autumn's impending arrival. On that night, Forrest went outside. He stood hatless in the rain, letting the water sluice off him as he thought of her. _She would have loved it. You would have loved this._ He thought that she also would have loved the changes that his brothers were making.

Howard eventually sobered up, realizing that with Forrest as withdrawn and heartbroken as he obviously was, Howard needed to step up as head of the family business now. On top of that, he realized that while they were making a great deal of money, he was costing them money too by helping himself to a jar here and there when he wanted. So he gradually set the booze aside and marveled at the head for business he really had, when it was clear.

The first thing Jack did when he came home was propose to Bertha. He did not stop to ask her father first, as protocol demanded, but she said yes anyway. At first, Tizwell Minnix forbade the match, but eventually he changed his mind when Bertha finally, finally put her foot down and threatened to run away forever with Jack if he did not stop with his control. They were to be married the following spring.

Forrest noticed these things, Howard's sobriety, Jack's engagement. The town seemed thrilled to have them back. Mrs. Everett had reopened a new sewing shop and Miz Judy was back in her store, healthy as a horse. Things would have been rather a nice time, and mostly were for everyone but him. There were constant reminders of her everywhere outside the station as well, and in those months Forrest came to understand the indelible impact Francie had left on these people. Everyone asked about her, and everyone got the message when he would ignore their questions and halt the conversation entirely. Rumors spread of Francie's murder, and the townspeople grieved for her and would give him sad looks and murmur sympathetically whenever they would see him.

_Poor Forrest Bondurant_, they would say. _Poor Francie Abellard. _

Forrest endured it all, because he had to, and because he did not care what they said, and he went on with his life. He was the same legendary, strong and ruthless Bondurant he had always been, on the outside. On the inside, he was shriveled, twisted, and bent, and nothing could help him.


	33. Chapter 33

**A/N: You guys thought I would just leave you hanging like that? C'mon, son! You know me better than that. :-)**

**Chapter 33**

The train lurched to a stop at the tiny depot in the early evening. The train attendant, a young man, waited until the train finished its hissing and spitting, and then turned to head back through the empty passenger car. He was the only attendant on this entire rickety iron wagon, which was good, since there were no real amenities to speak of beyond some borderline undrinkable coffee.

He headed toward the back of the car, where a young woman sat. She was the only rider in this car, and though she seemed to be rather shy and quiet, she was far better company than the grumpy old fart in the first car and the nagging old bitty in the second. This lady was unobtrusive, polite. Not to mention, rather easy on the eyes. She had long, soft-looking, wavy black hair smoothed into a proper knot at the nape of her neck, and her clothes told him that she might be a city gal – pretty dress, stylish shoes. A nice overcoat against the early onset of an autumn chill. Her complexion was a creamy olive, with a slight hint of rose in her cheeks. But what drew him in, and made him decide he was maybe sweet on a total stranger, were her large, bright crystal blue eyes. He'd never seen anything quite so pretty.

She looked up as he approached, and he watched as her plump pink lips pulled into a friendly smile, and thought that maybe he couldn't decide if he liked her eyes or her mouth more. Then he reddened; she was a little older than him, and obviously a lady, and such thoughts were not decent; his mama had taught him to be more respectful than that. He waited patiently as she gathered her things, her pocketbook and her little handheld carry-on trunk, and returned her smile. He extended his hand to help her to her feet and then led the way through the car to the exit, and hopped down onto the platform. The young woman eyed the distance between the edge of the train and the platform somewhat warily, her hand going absently to her chest. The attendant quickly reached up to take her things and free her hands, and then carefully handed her down onto the platform. He handed her back the small trunk and her pocketbook.

"There y'are, miss," he said softly. "Let me go fetch your suitcase." He turned and hurried back onto the train, reaching up into an overhead compartment to pull her single suitcase down. He wondered vaguely who in the world _visited_ Franklin County; unless all of her worldly belongings were packed up in this one suitcase. He thought again of her fancy clothes and scoffed. She had to be visiting.

He brought her the suitcase and watched as she opened her pocketbook and dug around inside. Finally, she pulled out a single bill in her gloved hand and held it out. The attendant bobbed his head graciously, accepting it with a smile. "Thank you, miss."

He watched her take a few hesitant steps away, then turned. "Do you know where I might be able to rent a car?"

Her voice was sweet and a little bit husky, like soft velvet. "_Rent_, miss?" _Definitely from the big city._ "No, I'm sorry, miss. Do you need a ride? Ain't no one comin' to fetch you?"

"No," she replied softly. "No one is coming to fetch me."

The young attendant frowned, trying to think of a solution. He did think of something, and he brightened. "I could call the sheriff for ya," he said brightly. "He'd be more'n happy to come on out here and give a nice lady such as yourself a ride into town."

"That would be most kind of you," the young woman said with a smile. "I would certainly appreciate it."

"It's no problem a'tall," the young attendant said, only too happy to help. He pointed at a wooden bench. "Why don't you take a seat there and get comfy, and I'll go call over there right now."

The attendant went toward the ticket booth and used the telephone to ring the sheriff's office. He got the new deputy, Charles Williams, as Sheriff Potts was out for the evening to chaperone the town barn dance.

"Yeah, Deputy Williams," he said when the lawman answered. "Hey, it's Billy from the depot. There's a nice young lady here just got off the train who needs a ride into town. Can you come down and pick her up?" He listened for a moment, then glanced over to where the young woman was watching him closely with her pale blue eyes, and nodded and smiled. "Gee, that's swell, Deputy. Thanks. We'll see you soon."

He hung up and turned back to the young lady. "Deputy says he'll be here in a jiffy," he told her, and was pleased at the look of happy gratitude on her face.

"Oh, thank you!" she exclaimed. "That is positively wonderful."

She seemed so warm and kind that after about ten minutes of peaceful silence, the young attendant worked up his courage. "'Scuse my nosiness, ma'am, but I was just wonderin' what a fine lady like yourself is doin' in this sleepy little town?" he asked timidly. "Seems to me like you'd have a sight more fun in Roanoke, or be better off goin' to a bigger city yet, like 'Lanta or maybe New Orleans."

She smiled politely. "I'm here to visit a friend," she replied in her velvety soft voice. "Well, lots of friends, actually, but in particular, a special friend who I have not seen in several months."

"Oh?" the young attendant asked. "Who might that be, if I might ask? 'Scuse my nosiness," he hastened to apologize again, "I only ask 'cause I might know 'em."

Just then the Deputy pulled up and got out of his car. He was younger than Deputy Branson had been, but seemed strong and fearless despite having only been part of the Sheriff's Department for about a month, and was said to be a very intelligent man. He nodded at the young attendant and then politely waved to the young lady.

"You the little lady what needs a ride?" he called.

"Yes, please," the young woman answered, and rose to her feet, collecting her things again. The attendant practically tripped over his own feet in his hurry to claim her suitcase and trunk to carry them to the Deputy's car for her. He loaded her things in the backseat, and stood aside while the Deputy pulled open her door.

"What's your name, honey?" the Deputy asked, and the young attendant forgot all about his question going unanswered as he tuned in, wanting to know her name, as well.

"Francesca Fontaine," she replied quietly. "But my friends call me Francie."

"Well, Francie. That's a purdy name for a purdy gal. Where can I take you?"

"I'd like to go to Blackwater Station, please," the young lady called Francie said as she climbed gracefully into the car.

"The Bondurant place?" the young attendant blurted in surprise. How on earth could this well-bred, classy young woman be acquainted with the Bondurants?

The young lady met his eyes and winked. "Some of my friends. Thank you for all your help."

He stood staring open-mouthed as the car pulled off and headed down the dusty dirt road.

:O:O:O:

Driving into Franklin was a familiar sight, and memories came flooding back to her. Though the last time she'd been here, it had been under entirely different circumstances.

Twilight was falling on the town, and autumn was heavy in the crisp air. It happened to be Francie's favorite time of year.

"So you're friends with the Bondurants, are ya?" the Deputy asked. "Wouldn't have guessed that in a million years."

Francie smiled softly. "They used to be very good friends of mine," she replied. "I have not seen them in quite some time, though. Tell me – how are they doing?"

"Well, miss, I've only been here about a month, so I'm not quite as well acquainted with people around here as, say, Sheriff Potts would be. And I've only met them a few times. But they seem to be doin' well. The boy, Jack, they say he's gettin' hitched to the preacher's daughter come spring."

"Oh, how wonderful," Francie said, genuine gladness filling her. "And the other two?"

"Well'm, Howard's runnin' the station just well and they say he's courtin' a nice gal in Martinsville, and –"

"You say _Howard _is running the station?" Francie repeated in surprise.

"Yes'm, he been runnin' it as long as I been here, anyway."

"Oh," Francie replied. "And – and Forrest?"

"I don't know him so well, ma'am. He tends to keep to hisself most of the time. He's real quiet. But I'm sure you knew that." Francie nodded. "They say around town he lost a lover few months back, said she got shot by some private investigator, died right in his arms is what they say. People that know him best says that he ain't never been the same since she died."

"She didn't die in his arms," Francie said quietly. "She died at the hospital in Roanoke."

"You knew her, miss?" the Deputy asked, turning surprised eyes to her.

Francie nodded sadly and smiled a little. "I knew her. She died at the hospital but they brought her back again. They had a very dedicated staff at that hospital."

"And you're comin' to tell him that?" the Deputy repeated in excited confusion.

"In a manner of speaking," Francie replied politely, thanking her lucky stars that this Deputy apparently had not been informed of the entire story.

"Goddamn miracle," he said in a hushed voice, his eyes wide. He glanced between her and the road repeatedly. "Comin' back to tell him the gal what he lost is comin' back for him. Goddamn miracle."

It was darker when they reached Blackwater Station, the night sky a deep, velvety navy blue with a few stars visible like diamonds in the sky. Francie stared at the dark station, disappointment flowing through her.

"They're not here," she said simply, nothing the absence of any vehicle out front.

The Deputy stroked his chin. "Miss, I betcha they're in town. There's some sorta autumn barn dance or somethin' goin' on tonight. I'm sure that's where they're at. All that money to be made –" He clamped his mouth shut, abashed, and Francie turned to glance at him. "Sorry, miss."

"I know what they do for a living as well as you," she said gently. "I hate to be a bother, Deputy, but would you be so kind as to drive me to this dance?"

"Yes, yes, ma'am, it would be my pleasure," the Deputy said eagerly, already putting the car into motion again. "I'm certain they're there, miss, ain't no other place for them to be."

Eventually they coasted through town, pulling up to a large, abandoned barn that was popular among the townspeople for holding dances in. As Francie got out of the Deputy's car, she could immediately smell hickory in the air from, presumably, meat roasting on a spit. There were hay bales and pumpkins in front of the bar, and the door was open to let the cool breeze flow into the barn overheated with moving bodies. It was brightly lit inside, she saw, and there were people dancing to the merry strains of the music floating out, half-masks over many of their faces.

"Is _everyone _in the County at this party?" she murmured rhetorically, but the Deputy provided an answer for her.

"Yes, ma'am, sure seems that way," he said. "It's the autumn festival. Pretty big deal around here, from what I can tell."

Francie squinted into the barn. "Why are they wearing those masks?"

"In spirit of the season," the Deputy replied. "Bein' that it's close to Halloween and all."

"Oh," Francie replied. "What a shame. I haven't a mask."

"Here," the Deputy said, reaching into his vehicle. "I was 'sposed to come and catch up to Sheriff Potts. Ain't no use in me wearin' this; I ain't foolin' anyone." He smiled and gestured to his badge. "You can wear my mask. The lady at the general store give it to me today."

Francie smiled and took the mask. It was some flashy concoction of brown, cream and gold paint, with a big cream colored feather. She slid it on, and it was so large it covered her face from the crown of her head to her top lip. She looked at the Deputy. "How do I look?"

"Like you'll fit right in," he replied and offered her his elbow. "Shall we?"

Francie shucked her coat and left it in the deputy's vehicle, then took his elbow and followed him toward the lively barn. She glanced around and saw that she did, indeed, fit right in. The mask obscured most of her face and covered the top of her head, the jaunty cream feather adding just the right amount of haughtiness to her ornate mask. She wore a dusty rose colored dress with a tiny print of dark gold flowers. It had tiny puffed sleeves, a sweetheart neckline edged in lace, and a slim skirt that fell to just below her knees. The low-cut, tight fitting bodice of the dress pushed her breasts up nicely, but it also revealed an ugly scar over the top of her left breast. It was almost completely healed, but it marred her otherwise flawless skin most obviously and served as a constant reminder of how it got there in the first place. Her small feet were encased in a pair of brand new cream-and-camel colored leather T-strap heels and she moved in them as easily as if she were barefoot.

She scanned the room full of dancing bodies, celebrating the arrival of autumn. The music was loud, energetic, and brought dancers of all ages, sexes and shapes to the middle of the wooden floor. They began a line dance and Francie watched in awe as the women flounced the skirts of their dresses around their knees, their feet snapping quickly in time to the music, and each heel stomped in precise unison, each pair of hands clapped simultaneously. Dresses swirled as women turned, men's heavy boots kept the rhythm with their stomping, and around and around they twirled. The air was heavy with the strings of the banjo, bass and fiddle, along with the heavy scent of burning hickory, smoke from countless cigars. There was laughter all around her, and cat-calling, and high-pitched screams punctuated with deep rumbling laughter that hinted of inebriation; Francie looked around and notice clear glass jars being passed around indiscreetly. Despite the presence of the sheriff and his deputy, no one at this town party seemed at all concerned about the very much known presence of liquor. There were tables lined with food as well, barbecued meats fresh from the spits outside, pumpkin pies, apple pies, biscuits, fruits, salads. It was quite a spread, indeed, and people seemed to be having the time of their lives.

"Well, miss, I have to find Sheriff Potts and keep an eye on things," the Deputy was saying to her. "Will you be all right here?"

Francie glanced around and then she suddenly saw a very familiar figure and her lips curled into a smile. "Yes, Deputy. I will be fine. Thank you so much for your kindness and help." The Deputy kissed her hand and then disappeared into the crowd.

Francie turned and moved toward the familiar figure through the crowd. The young man she spotted was standing at the edge of the dancing crowd, smiling and clapping his hands in time to the music. He was not wearing a mask like most of the people at the party were. His eyes kept going back to the pretty, delicate blonde banjo player who looked back at him intermittently and winked.

Francie reached him and touched his arm, and he turned. She looked into his big hazel eyes and leaned close to his ear. "Excuse me, sir. May I have a dance?"

He looked completely taken aback by her request, but Francie just smiled shyly and lowered her eyes. He would not refuse her, she knew, and then she felt one of his hands rest hesitantly on her waist and the other took her hand gingerly.

"Why, sure, miss. I suppose one dance couldn't hurt nothin'." He smiled awkwardly. "You just caught me off guard a little, is all. I ain't used to young ladies askin' _me _for a dance."

"Oh?" Francie said in his ear, keeping her eyes down. "Well, you do dance divinely. I could not imagine why."

"Well, y'see, I'm engaged," he said. "So 'bout the only gal I dance with these days is her."

"Well, I promise I'm not here to try and steal you," Francie said with a low giggle. He snorted with laughter.

"Are you new in town, miss?" he asked. "I don't reckon I've seen you around before. Are you from the city?"

"Something like that," Francie replied. She pulled back a little and finally met his eyes for longer than a beat. He was giving her a friendly smile that suddenly dropped away from his face and he paled a little, his eyes going as wide as saucers.

"Are you all right?" she asked him. "Why, you look like you've just seen a ghost."

He shook his head quickly and blinked. "Uh, no, miss. I am sorry. It's just that – your eyes, well, they remind me a lot of someone I used to know. A very dear friend of mine. She had the same color blue as you do."

"Someone you used to know?" Francie repeated. "Like a sweetheart?"

He shook his head rapidly. "No, no, miss, nothin' like that. This gal, she was more like – like – a sister to me." He cleared his throat suddenly and blinked his eyes several times. When he met her eyes again, she saw they were shining, and he smiled apologetically. "Although she and m'big brother were sweethearts. Well, they was more than that. They was in love."

"Why do I get the idea that she's no longer around?" Francie asked, patting his shoulder comfortingly.

"She, uh – she ain't." He did not offer any more, and Francie patted his shoulder again. "Sorry, miss, I'm not quite sure how I even got into all of that with you." He shook his head again. "Oh, that's right. Color o' your eyes. Same as hers."

"Let's switch topics," Francie said soothingly. "I am sorry I made you sad all of a sudden. Tell me, Jack. Have you learned to cook a proper dish for Bertha yet? You _are_ getting married soon, aren't you? Time is running out."

"Well, miss, I – " Jack began, then cut his eyes sharply to her face. "Wait a minute. I never told you my name. Or my gal's. How did you –"

He trailed off when Francie removed her hands from his shoulder, and lifted the mask slowly. This time, he did turn as white as a sheet, and for a moment, Francie was terrified he might faint. She quickly cupped his face in her hands.

"Jack, it's really me," she said softly. "It's me." She patted his cheeks as his hands came to her elbows. He propelled her gently toward the back of the barn for privacy and his watery hazel eyes roamed her face.

"M-miss F-francie?" he stuttered. "It's really you? But – but how? They told us you was dead, we thought –"

"Very long story," she said softly, patting his hands. "But the short version is that there was a mix-up, and Jack, I'm fine. I'm fine, sweetie."

Then he pulled her into his arms and wrapped them tightly around her, and hugged her like he never wanted to let her go. "Miss Francie," he said shakily, "we've all missed you so damn much. Forrest, he – he ain't the same a'tall, he died the day you –"

Francie barely had time to register Jack's words – _died?_ – before a large hand dropped down on his shoulder.

"Makin' nice with another sweet young thing, huh, Jackie?" a booming voice said. "Don't think Miss Bertha would much care for that."

Jack whipped around and glared up into the face of his oldest brother. "Fuck you, Howard," he hissed. "_Look_, dammit."

Francie lifted her head a little and met Howard's pale green eyes. They registered recognition, confusion, and then shock. His mouth fell open as he stared at Francie.

"Francie," he murmured. "Holy sweet Jesus. Mother of God. We thought – we thought – they told us –"

Francie reached out to take his hand and smiled tremulously up at him. It was overwhelmingly wonderful to be back in the Bondurants' presence again. Howard pulled her toward him and embraced her, bending his tall body over hers and pressing his lips hard to her forehead.

"I was telling Jack," she said thickly, her throat tight with tears she was fighting back, "that there was a mix-up at the hospital. There were so many people there, Howard. I sort of got lost in the shuffle. But I made it. I made it." She pulled back and looked up into his clear eyes, noting that they weren't the normal blood-shot hue she remembered. She smiled into his face and he shook his head, looking awestruck.

"Damn miracle," he said. "Can't believe you found your way back."

"Howard," she whispered. Suddenly, it had become incredibly difficult to speak. "Forrest?"

Howard's jaw tightened and he glanced down. He shook his head. "He – he's not himself," he said quietly.

"But he's alive?"

"Yes, yes," Howard replied, nodding rapidly. "Alive. But his heart – it's plumb broken. Maybe his mind, too. He just – he fell apart when you di – when we _thought_ you was dead. He ain't the same. He just ain't the same."

"Where is he?" Francie asked, patting his cheek comfortingly. "I don't see him in here."

"He's outside. He came for the run, to collect the money, but he can't be around people. He just can't do it these days."

"I'll find him," Francie said. "I need to go to him."

After a few more soft words between them, and more embraces, Francie gently disentangled herself and went outside, back the way she had come, to go look for Forrest. She did not want to make her way through the barn and be recognized by the townsfolk. She wanted to find Forrest above anything else. Her heart clenched with worry as Howard's words rang in her mind. _His mind and heart, broken? Not the same?_ As she made her way around the barn, scanning the grounds carefully for any sign of him, she mulled over the words, and they frightened her. She was frightened of what she might find.

She rounded the side of the barn toward the back, and then she saw him.

He was sitting a dozen yards away from the bar, on a low stone fence. His old Model T was parked a few feet away, loaded with crates of liquor to be sold to the partygoers. Though his back was to her, she saw that he held a jar in one hand and a cigar in the other.

She tilted her head and approached hesitantly. From the outside, from the back, he still _looked_ the same – his hair was still closely cropped and combed over. His back was still a broad expanse of strong, well-developed muscular flesh. His shoulders were still wide and curved, his arms heavy with muscle. But there was slump to his shoulders now, where he had once held them up and back. His head was tilted so far forward that she imagined his chin had to be on his chest. Every inch of him radiated sorrow and defeat, and her heart broke a little for him. All because he believed she was dead, all of these months.

She watched as he took another swig from the jar and set it next to him. It was about half-full and she couldn't help a little surprise at the sight; Forrest had never been a big drinker before, but here he was, swallowing half a jar in one go.

A cloud of smoke suddenly puffed up around him, billowing over his shoulders as he exhaled, and she caught the scent, and memories came flooding back to her. No other cigar she had smelled in the barn smelled like his, and that scent was uniquely him. She thought back to the first time she remembered smelling it, the day she had collapsed by the side of the road out of exhaustion, thirst and hunger. And how she had come to against his scent, his rich, smoky, spicy odor that made her mouth water and set her senses on fire. She could smell it now, and she took a deep, deep breath, filling herself with his scent, and took a few more steps toward him until he was only a dozen feet away.

She was suddenly terrified. She took another silent, deep breath and screwed up her courage, wondering why she felt she needed to.

"Forrest?"


	34. Chapter 34

**A/N: Not done yet, loves. There's more after this. And warning: this is extremely angsty and fluffy.**

**Chapter 34**

Forrest sat on the low brick ledge away from the barn, away from the noise. Away from the people.

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a cigar and struck a match on the brick, bringing it up to light the stogie and puffed on it hard to get it going. He sat smoking for a while, then decided _to hell with it_ and grabbed a jar from one of the crates in the back of his Model T. He was starting to get as bad as Howard had been lately with as much drinking as he'd been doing.

He had not really intended to start, even. It was just that one night, after months of insomnia and physical exhaustion, he had finally given into the urge to do _something _to help him sleep. He had drained an entire jar of 'shine and then had slept like a baby – passed out, really. Never mind that he'd had a splitting headache and horrible hangover the next morning. For one night, one blessed night, he had slept, and he had not dreamed.

When he did manage to sleep brokenly, he dreamed. And he dreamed of her. Over and over he dreamed of the night that she was shot. Sometimes, he was the one grabbing her and pulling her in front of him like a human shield. Other nights, he was the one to pull the trigger himself. Still other nights he dreamed of exactly what had happened – how she had leapt in front of him to protect him and gotten herself killed. And always, always, she died in his arms in the dream. Sometimes sweetly with whispers of her love. Other times, accusatory, using her last breaths to ask him how he could betray her and let her die.

Sometimes in the dreams he would lay her out on the bar, her dead body cleaned and dressed, her skin waxy and pale with death. Her black curls would halo around her face, and he would put wildflowers in her hands. When he would go to replace her locket, she would open her eyes and they would be a lifeless, icy blue, so pale they were almost white, and her lips would shrivel and her teeth were black, and she would say, _"You have done this to me, Forrest. You have killed me. This is your fault."_ And he would wake up, sputtering and choking and gasping, and it would take him a long, long time to calm down and realize it had been a dream. A nightmare.

It was safer not to sleep. So, he did not.

The lack of any real, restful sleep for months on end was taking an enormous toll on his body. He would often find himself randomly dozing off during the day, at his desk or on the porch, and sometimes the nightmares would find him in the light of day. Other times, he would wake because he had been _so sure_ he had heard her – her sweet laughter, her voice calling out to him. _"Forrest?"_ He knew he had heard it, so many times, and each and every time it happened he would go running. Through the station, or outside into the woods because he had _heard her, goddammit_ and then when the crushing reality hit him that it was his own imagination, his own grieved longing that he had heard, it was too much to bear.

It was her ghost haunting him; of that he was sure. It was the only reason why he could still smell her, still feel her, still hear her.

_"__Forrest?"_

Even now, he could hear that sweet voice of hers calling his name. It had happened again recently when he'd been out unloading crates to put back into the newly rebuilt shed. It had come out of nowhere, startling him, and he'd almost dropped a hundred dollars' worth of corn on the ground at the sound of it. Of course, he'd gone after it like he always did, being the dumb fuck he was turning out to be now, despite the fact that he knew, he _knew_, he would not find her because he never did, and it always hurt him, every time. Every single time, when the full realization that she was really and truly gone and it was his shattered heart and mind playing tricks on him, and her ghost haunting him, it hit him like a two by four, his gut would clench up painfully and his chest would ache and ache and he would be no better off than how he was when he started.

Occasionally, he did have good dreams about her. He thought maybe that was the sweet spirit of her ghost coming through for him to offer a little reprieve. He would dream of dancing in the rain with her, of making love to her in his bed and outside in the rain and in the bed of his truck on a soft blanket. He would dream of her cooking something at the stove in the station while he watched, and he would dream of children, their children, playing and chasing each other as he held her body close to his.

These dreams were worse than the nightmares.

It was one thing to wake from the nightmare and know that he _hadn't_ really killed Francie; that she had died saving his life, and that he had not actually pulled the trigger. But it was entirely another to wake from a beautiful dream of a life they _could_ have had together, only to realize it would never be his.

In addition to his grief, Forrest suffered with an incredible amount of self-loathing. He was turning into the type of soft, emotionally wrought man he despised and never desired to be. Even hearing his condition referred to as a "broken heart" by his brothers made him want to crack both their skulls together. He hated it, he hated _all _of it.

And so, he found refuge in the bottom of a jar of moonshine.

He glanced down, surprised to see now that he'd managed to drink half the jar in the time he'd spent wallowing in his thoughts and misery, so he set it down next to him. He knew that he needed to cut back, because lately he would skip the part where he got drunk and just go right to passing out. As it was, with half the jar consumed, he felt practically nothing other than a little bit of dizziness. He was not quite sure how he felt about that; he had always prided himself on being the levelheaded Bondurant, one who sold the liquor but never drank it. What a laugh that was, these days.

He puffed deeply on his cigar, letting the smoke float lazily out of his mouth as the light, crisp autumn breeze blew it back over his shoulders. He wondered why he was here at this party, with so many happy people, sitting out on this old brick stump while his brothers "conducted business" inside. It was a joke; while his brothers _were_ making sales, he knew that the real reason for their desire to go was to have fun, like the rest of the townspeople. Forrest was not quite sure why he felt so begrudging of that fun for them, but he did. Perhaps a small part of him felt that if he could not have fun and enjoy life, neither should they. He considered leaving a few crates behind and just going back to the station, but he knew he'd have to come back and pick up the two jackasses anyway, and if he did manage to fall asleep, he would not be particularly keen on waking back up to have to go fetch his brothers. 'Shine-induced sleep was the only time he could rest without being assaulted by nightmares and memories of her.

_"__Forrest?"_

He wondered when the next time would be that he would hallucinate hearing her voice. It seemed to happen at any given time these days. It did not matter what he was doing, where he was at, or how he was feeling. Her ghost would come upon him and he was helpless to ignore it, because it was always so realistic, as if she were right behind him.

_"__Forrest?"_

God, was it happening again? Right now? Forrest ground his cigar out and brought his hands to his face. No. He would not give in this time. Maybe if he _did _try hard to ignore it this time, she would go away. Her spirit would leave him, and he could live in peace.

"Forrest?"

_Lord Jesus, have mercy_, he begged silently. It _was_ happening again, right now, and her voice was as clear and resonant as if she really _were_ standing right behind him. _I'm losin' my mind_, he thought desperately, and the thought chilled him. _I'm goin' insane. Go away go away go away go away –_

Something soft and light landed on his shoulder, and he tore away from it like it shocked him, and he spun around, his hand automatically reaching into his pocket for his brass. What good brass knuckles would do against an invisible voice, he did not know, but Lord help him, he might knock his own self out.

When he saw what stood before him, his hand dropped to his side and the knuckles slid off, falling into the grass. He stared, speechless for a long moment. She stood before him, better than what his memories recalled, in some dress he'd never seen, her face clear, her hair smooth. Maybe he'd seen this dress in a shop window in town and that's what he was thinking of now; either way, the hallucination was taking form of her actual body now.

_Maybe I am drunk_, he thought as he stared. _Maybe I am three sheets to the wind and I just can't tell. Maybe I am crazy_.

The hallucination spoke. "Forrest?"

He stared at its mouth, that beautiful, full mouth that spoke his name, the one that used to drive him insane at night, thinking of it and how it would taste and feel under his own. Then when he had finally tasted it, he knew he'd never be able to get enough of it. And the voice, it sounded just like it always did, husky but sweet, soft.

He stared at it dully, wondering how drunk he really was since he could not feel anything right now but a tingling numbness going through his whole body. "I'm either drunker'n I thought," he said quietly, hardly registering he was speaking out loud, "or I'm losin' my fuckin' mind." He squeezed his eyes shut. "Either way, when I open my eyes, leave me alone. Go away."

"Forrest," the illusion's soft voice said, sweetly concerned. "It's me. It's Francie."

He let out a strangled noise, a cross between a shout and a groan, and grasped his head, stumbling away from her. "Goddammit, I said _leave me alone!_ I can't get no peace! She's gone, you stupid fuckin' bastard, she's gone and she ain't comin' back. Just fuckin' _stop!"_

He bent over, his hands on his knees, his chest heaving. His eyes burned and his heart ached sharply, as he once again had to remind himself that she was gone. But why must he continuously be tortured? Why couldn't he get any peace? Why couldn't he let her go?

"I need a gun," he said brokenly. "I need me a bullet in the fuckin' head."

Suddenly he was being touched again, his shirt being balled up in two small fists, fists that were warm, and he was being yanked upright and thrust against the side of the truck. He stared down into the hallucination's face, panting, exhausted and utterly confused.

"You listen to me, Forrest Bondurant," the hallucination said fervently. "You stop all of this nonsense. Look at me. _Look at me._ It's _me, _your Francie. _Your _Francie."

"It ain't," he said dimly. "It ain't. She's dead. My Francie is dead."

"I am _not dead!_" Suddenly he felt warmth on his face and the hallucination's hands were on his cheeks. But how could a hallucination be so warm? How could hands that his mind conjured be this soft? "Forrest, snap out of it! I'm here with you now, sweetheart. It was all a mistake, one horrible mistake. You couldn't find me, because you thought I wasn't here to find. But we promised we'd find each other, didn't we? Didn't we? I've found you, sweetheart, I've found you. I'm here with you now."

Somehow she was in his arms, hers tight around his neck, her hands soothingly stroking the back of his neck and head. She was murmuring into his ear, and he could feel a curious little pounding against the outside of his chest. Did hallucinations have hearts?

He could smell her now, that torturously sweet, floral aroma that clung to her skin, her hair, her clothes – everything that she touched. His head spun, feeling the white lightning now, and this illusion was so real. Maybe he was having one of those sweet dreams again, he thought, his mind befuddled and slow. The kind of dream that hurt so much when he awoke from it, but made him so happy while he was in it. He knew it would hurt like taking a hammer to the face later, but for now – he indulged. He wasn't strong enough to fight it anymore, and goddammit, it felt so good.

He hesitantly wrapped his arms around her waist, tightening as he felt the hallucination, the dream, press herself against him.

"That's it, sweetheart," she whispered. "Oh, how I've missed you, my love."

"I've missed you," he said hoarsely. He could say these things because he was dreaming, and no one would have to hear him. "I've been – I've been lost without you. I told you I'd be lost."

"Now you're found again," she murmured, her cheek as soft as butter against his scratchy stubble. "I've found you."

He pulled her head back to look into it; his mind was sharper than he'd given it credit for. The color of her eyes was spot on, and the color of her lips, not to mention the size and shape. What about the softness?

He pulled her up by the chin and tentatively pressed his lips against hers, and immediately a flood of familiarity and warmth filled him, as well as memories. They felt exactly how he remembered. In fact, they were trembling a little under his, and hungrily trying to pull at his mouth. He pulled away a little, listening to the little shuddering breaths, and his eyes moved lower.

Her throat was creamy and smooth in life, and his memory hadn't forgotten, he thought as he ran his thumb down its length. _Perfect. _He slid his fingers over her collarbones, her delicate collarbones that he had known were a sensitive place on her skin. He dipped his head to brush them with his lips, and the illusion, the dream, the memory, shook a little and gripped him tighter.

He moved lower to her chest, her bosom. The bodice on this dress he could not place pushed her breasts up, her tantalizing breasts that he had spent so much time trying not to stare at. He vaguely recalled that low-cut dress she had on when she worked at the juke joint and how badly he had wanted to touch those breasts she'd had on display, her cleavage a delicious taunt. How he had wanted to squeeze them and stroke them and taste them. How flawlessly smooth the entire expanse of her chest had been. His fingers moved over her skin. Yes, it was just as he remembered. Just as smooth and soft –

_Wait._

His fingers brushed over an uneven patch of skin on the left side of her chest, just slightly above her left breast. The skin was puckered, marred, as though something had sliced it or punctured it and the skin had knitted together messily.

He opened his eyes and looked down to where his fingers were touching her chest, and moved them aside. There was an ugly scar on her skin, in the place where she'd been shot. It was the diameter of a medium-sized button and had lines of puckered flesh radiating out from it. From the light from the lamps inside the barn, he could see that it was still a little pink, as though it were in the final stages of healing.

He shook his head rapidly; it didn't make sense. Every dream or nightmare he had of her, Francie either had her wound when it had freshly exploded into her skin, or she was completely unmarked. He had never before dreamed or hallucinated what she would look like healed; he wouldn't even begin to be able to imagine what a human chest would look like recovered from a bullet wound. It didn't make any sense.

He realized his hand was still resting on her breast, and he could feel the fast, steady beat of it racing under his palm. Her chest moved up and down with fast, silent breaths, and she was staring at him, her eyes huge with uncertainty.

_She's warm. Why is she so warm if she's an illusion, a dream?_

Finally, finally – his mind accepted it, believed it, and understood.

"Francie?" he asked, and his voice sounded so far away to his own ears. He brought his hands up to either side of her head, and they were shaking.

She stared into his eyes, and she saw that he understood, that he was with her now. "It's me," she whispered again, covering his hands. "It's really me, sweetheart. I'm here."

And then he yanked her to him, really pulled, and she was against him, and he was crushing her against his chest, and he was burying his face in the side of her neck, in her hair that he yanked loose from its knot, and he was choking out her name, over and over. His arms tightened around her waist and he heard her gasp in surprise, but she only held on to him, gripping his head as he clutched at her.

"How," he said into her neck, his voice strangled. "How." He could not get his voice to allow him anything more than that.

"There was a mix-up," Francie said, and he could hear the tears in her voice and feel them on the side of his face. "I was told there was a bad fire at a hotel in Roanoke and the hospital was filled with people. Somehow they got my chart mixed up with someone else's."

Forrest pulled away from her neck, and some strands of her hair were stuck to his face – his face that was wet from his watery eyes as well as her tears. She reached up to brush the moisture off his face tenderly. "It was a mistake," she repeated softly.

"Why didn't you send word?" Forrest asked, his voice hardening with anger borne of hurt. "Do you know what I went through?" His voice was low and steady but his hands tightened on her upper arms despite his mind telling him to calm down. "Do you know the _hell_ I've been through these past months, thinkin' you were dead?"

"Forrest," she said tremulously, her eyes going wide with fear.

"You've been alive this whole time and I didn't know it," he said harshly, his voice choked. "You got no fuckin' idea what I been through laborin' under that illusion. Goddammit, Francie, it's been nothin' but torture and agony. I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't get no peace, I –"

His voice strangled in his throat again as his hands squeezed tighter on her and he shook her a little, and her hands came to his shoulders, startled. He growled, a noise of agony, and shook her again.

"Forrest," she murmured again, her voice trembling, and he knew she was frightened. "Let me hold you now."

He slowly released his grip on her arms and they went around his neck again shakily. He automatically lowered his face to the curve where her neck met her shoulder, despite a desire to hate her a little in that moment.

"Francie, I found out there's no livin' without you," he said into her flesh, his voice shaking. "No life for me without you. Why couldn't you –"

"Hush," she said quietly, her hands soothing against him. "Forrest, it took me a long time to wake up. The doctors tell me I died twice on the table when they were transfusing me. It was only a miracle by the Grace of God that I pulled through, and I was asleep for a long, long time while I healed. They had to move me to a hospital in Richmond, because they were afraid that Mrs. Lattimore would come after me or hire someone else to do it. No one could know about me. So when the mix-up happened, the doctor who was taking care of me did not try to correct it; the more people who thought I was dead, the better to keep me safe. When I woke up, it was another couple of months before I was aware that I was supposed to be dead. And then I realized that _you _must have been told I was dead. So I got my affairs together, and sought the help of an old friend of my father's, who helped take care of me, and as soon as I was well enough I came here. I could not, _would_ not send a telegram. After what we've shared," she paused to kiss his cheek, "I had to see you, I had to tell you myself. Forgive me, sweetheart. I hate that you went through so much pain without me. But, Forrest." She leaned back and made him lift his head. "I never want to leave you again. I never thought we'd see each other again. A part of me felt that perhaps I should let you think I was dead, that maybe you would move on with your life and build a new one with someone else. But I am far too selfish for that." A hint of her old smile tugged at her lips. "I love you, Forrest. And I am here. If you'll have me."

"If I'll have you," he repeated quietly, his voice gruff, feeling much calmer now. "Francie, don't you know I belong to you? Just as you belong to me. You're mine."

She wrapped her hands around the back of his neck and pushed up on her tiptoes. She looked intensely into his eyes. "Kiss me right now, Forrest Bondurant, like you goddamn mean it."

He didn't need to be told twice. He slid his hands under her flowing black curls, gripping tight, and pulled her up even higher. He tilted his head until his lips were against hers and inhaled deeply. _God, it's like coming home._ He lifted his eyes for an instant and met her crystalline blue eyes, before dropping them back to her mouth and closing them and finally took her lips in a slow, deep, firm kiss. He felt her breath speed up against his cheek, soft little puffs of air, and a tiny whimper escaped her throat as she clung to him. He wasn't sure if it was the moonshine or her lips that made him so deliriously, deliciously dizzy in that moment.

As he consumed her mouth with his own again in another fiery, slow, deep kiss, feeling himself come back to life, he knew it wasn't the 'shine.


	35. Chapter 35

**A/N: Nothin' but lemon fluff for you here. It's also a bit rough - wanted to get this out to you today because I'm an impatient little thing. So...rough and fluffy. Ruffy? Flough? Whatever. Read and enjoy please! Oh, and review. Thanks!**

**Chapter 35**

It seemed like it took forever to unwind from Forrest's arms by the truck, and then to find Jack and Howard, who, as it turned out and much to Francie's amusement and Forrest's annoyance, had not been far away. They had followed Francie when she had left them and hidden behind the corner of the barn, watching and eavesdropping. Forrest had wanted to pound them, but Francie intervened gently, letting him know that all was well that ended well. For a moment, she was content to bask in the knowledge that the four of them were back together again, and it truly felt like coming home. Francie realized that the other two Bondurants looked at her as a surrogate sister, as though she were already a part of their family. She _was_ a part of their family.

Though they wanted to spend time together, staying up late and talking and catching Francie up on what they had been up to and finding out how she had recovered and come back to Virginia, the oldest and youngest of the Bondurant brothers realized that Forrest and Francie needed time to be alone. It was not a hard realization to come to, judging by the way Forrest refused to take his hands off her body and kept looking at her, and how Francie's fists balled up in his sleeve or his belt or his hands. A reunion the likes of which would involve all four of them would have to wait, though, as Forrest shot daggers at his brothers with his eyes. Mercifully, before Forrest could really give vent to his impatience, Howard and Jack both piled into the bed of the truck – "'cause neither one o' you two brayin' jackasses is ridin' in this cab – freeze your asses off back there and then tell me how funny it is" – laughing at him and making suggestive comments under their breath. Forrest drove them to the farm that had belonged to their father, keeping Francie firmly to his side. Then it seemed as if it took forever for Jack and Howard to say goodbye to her, as if they would not be seeing her again very soon.

She could not have imagined that she could feel this happy again, after the long months of excruciating pain, both physical and emotional, and wondering if she would ever be the same woman that she had once been. While New Orleans was her place of birth and where she had grown up – it had never felt like home. Not like the way being here, in this tiny, sleep town, felt like home.

Now that she and Forrest were really and truly alone for the first time in months, sitting close together in his truck, his free arm tightly around her and her head on his shoulder, she glanced at him from under her lashes for the umpteenth time. She felt nervous, anticipatory tingles in her belly every time she looked him. He had frightened her half out of her wits earlier – this broken shell of the man that she had once known. She could have never imagined that she would or could affect someone so deeply, and she realized just how much Forrest cared about and loved her. It was mindboggling.

Though she knew that she had done everything she could to the best of her ability and knowledge while she had been recovering, she felt horribly guilty that she had not been able to reach out to him when she had come back to the world of the living. Seeing the torture, the _torment_ that he had endured because he had believed all these months that she was truly dead broke her heart. She never wanted him to feel that way again.

He had frightened her with how out of touch with reality he had seemed; he had really believed for a good, long while that she had been an apparition, an illusion, a hallucination – a figment of his imagination. She was terrified that he really had lost his mind. But when he had seen her scar, felt it, touched her again, she had seen it all come together in his mind that she was really and truly real, standing before him. His pewter blue eyes had sharpened, the look of confused heartbreak on his face had fallen away, and he had immediately begun to look like his old self. And though he had also frightened her with his minor display of violence, borne of hurt and anger, it had also reassured her that he was coming back to life, that he was becoming _her_ Forrest again, because as long as he was getting angry and mouthy, he was not wallowing in his misery or on the brink of insanity.

She knew she would have bruises on the tender skin of her arms, but she did not care. She was thrilled to be next to him again, and his kisses by the truck had showed her only a small measure of how much he had truly missed her. She shook at the thought of lying down with him again, but her body roared to life, and she needed him terribly, the way she knew he needed her. It was not just about physical gratification; it was the joining of their bodies specifically, meant for no one but the other.

But she had a moment of doubt; would it be the same as it had been before? So much time had gone by; perhaps too much damage had been done for them to experience the same physical passion as they had done previously. Perhaps he was still angry with her for keeping him uninformed, and that made him want to keep her at arm's length until he was no longer angry. Perhaps – Francie's stomach clenched tightly at the thought – perhaps he had had another woman while she had been gone.

Forrest was silent on the way back to the station, but he kept his arm around her, and his fingers stroking the skin of her arms sent tingles bursting over her flesh. She realized how much she had missed his touch, and how it could make her feel. But her nagging fear, one that was clutching her and taking root in the pit of her stomach, made her body tighten at his touch.

He did not miss it. "What's the matter, Francie?" he asked in that low, rich voice she loved and had missed terribly. "And don't you tell me 'nothin''. I know you better than that by now."

"I was just thinking about how much I missed you – in every way," she said, a little shyly. "And I wondered how much you have missed me in return."

He grunted. "Umm. You have to ask?"

She felt suddenly foolish but now that she had begun speaking, she could not seem to stop. "I just – well, it has been so many months. And you thought I was dead. Did you –" She paused delicately. "Was there another –" She broke off helplessly, regretting she had said anything at all.

As though he immediately understood precisely what she was driving at, Forrest suddenly pulled the truck off the main road, nestling it between two small copses of trees. He shut off the engine and turned to her. She felt apprehensive because she could not see his face in the darkness. Suddenly she felt his hands on her face.

"Francie, since I met you, there ain't been anybody else _but_ you," he said quietly. "When I thought you was dead…believe me when I tell you I died then too." He looked at her pointedly. "_Every_ part of me."

"And now?" Francie whispered, her hands coming to rest on top of his as they cupped her face gently.

In reply, Forrest slid his hand around to the back of her head and tugged her closer. A moment later she felt his warm, full, soft mouth envelop hers, his tongue breeching her lips to stroke against hers. He took her hand and lowered it to his lap, where she felt him full, hard, and thick.

"What's it feel like to you?" he murmured back against her lips. She could not help her hand squeezing around the bulge in his trousers, and she whimpered against the sudden feeling of her core throbbing to life. It had been far too long. His rough hand dropped to her thigh, pushing up the hem of her dress to squeeze her flesh.

She suddenly realized the station was much too far away and she could not wait any longer.

"Forrest," she said, her voice rough and low with need. "I need you. Now."

As if he might have been thinking the same, he reached out for her just as she threw herself into his arms. "Francie," he murmured into the flesh of her neck, his tongue swiping against her racing pulse.

Anything else he said next was swallowed by her mouth, as she pulled herself onto his lap and straddled it, never pulling her lips from his. His hands squeezed at her breasts before sliding down her back, yanking up the hem of her dress higher as she fumbled with his pants. She felt his fingers graze along the edge of her lace knickers before a tearing noise met her ears and he was tossing the remnants of them to the side.

"Forrest," she panted against his lips as he moved to help her free him from his trousers. "You must stop tearing my lingerie. It's expensive."

"I'll get you some more," he mumbled back, sucking at her lower lip. He was out of his pants now, thick and hard and long in her hand and as she stroked him he made a deep, grumbling sound in his chest, his hands tightening on her as he lowered his mouth to her neck again.

Wordlessly his hands moved down to cup her bare backside as he pulled her up and positioned her over him. His fingers brushed her core, and she felt his fingers slide wetly against her flesh as another burst of heat flared up from his touches. He bit his lip and grunted a little at the feel of her eagerness for him, like wet, creamy silk against his fingertips. His hands returned to her backside and Francie felt his tip at her hot entrance, just barely parting her, and she gasped and whined in his ear as her insides pulsed rapidly of their own accord. She knew that as soon as he slipped past that soft, special spot inside her, she would come apart immediately – she could feel it building and burning in her.

"Look at me," he panted harshly. "I want to see you."

She lifted her head and stared right into his eyes as he lifted his hips to push up into her as she simultaneously pushed back down on him. And as she knew it would happen, the moment his thickness filled her, stretched her, and stroked the magical place just inside her, she imploded.

He was growling wordlessly, staring at her as her mouth fell open and her eyes went wide, a low, gasping moan escaping her lips as her body shuddered and convulsed. She wanted to fall against his chest but he held her waist tightly and groaned against her rapidly fluttering walls, gripping and releasing him, over and over.

She was still trembling as he made her body move, her hands fisting into his shirt as he pulled her hips down flush against his, and he buried himself deeply inside her. She let out a whimper of surprise – she had forgotten exactly what he had felt like, how much he filled her and stretched her to her maximum. It was a shock, a mixture of pleasure and pain, and she quivered around his length for a moment. She lowered her face to his to kiss him again as she moved her hips, rolling them forward with a snap and swallowing the moans and pants from his lips.

"Goddammit, I forgot how good you feel," he growled against her mouth. "Honey, this ain't gonna last long."

He groaned again against the next snap of her hips before she smoothed out the sharpness of her movements into a deep roll. His hands gripped a handful of her backside as he muttered curses into her skin.

"I came undone the moment I felt you," she murmured in his ear, rolling her hips up until she felt him stroke against that lovely, fleshy mound inside. The burning, building sensation of heat began again with a few more rolls of her hips, and she felt her walls stretch even further when Forrest reached his maximum hardness. "But we have forever, Forrest. There's no hurry."

She lifted her hips and rolled them hard against him again, and it was just enough for them both. She keened into his neck as he tightened his arms around her and grunted into her shoulder, both of them trembling and straining against each other with the force of their combined release.

Francie breathed deeply, inhaling Forrest's scent, waiting for her body to stop shaking and her pulse to slow. Forrest's arms slid around her waist, his hands rubbing at her back.

"Hope you got all the rest you could these past few months," he murmured in her ear. "You're gonna need it tonight."

:O:O:O:

For a man who had _not_ gotten all the rest he needed over the past several months, Forrest felt like a rejuvenated man who had caught his second wind.

He had carried Francie into the station and straight up the stairs to his bedroom, throwing her onto his bed. They had made love again with all of their clothes on, only moving the necessary pieces out of the way in their fervor to get to each other. Francie had rolled him to his back and he had lifted up the skirt of her dress so he could watch the way she moved her hips and how that soft, sweet flesh looked grinding right against him.

He let her sleep after, pulling off her dress finally and then her brassiere, watching as her naked body sleepily rolled in the quilt as she sought a comfortable position. Forrest had pulled off his own clothing before sliding in next to her and gathering her against his chest, hardly able to comprehend that he was actually, really and truly holding her once more. He had believed for so long that he never would have been able to do that ever again.

He watched her sleep for a little while, his fingers tracing lazy lines on her arms and shoulders and back, occasionally moving to her cheek, and then her lips, and over her chest. He paused, feeling her scar again, letting his fingers trail over the ruined flesh there. He gently pressed against her shoulder to make her shift to her back in her sleep. She murmured sleepily in the back of her throat and he nuzzled her pulse, murmuring "Shh" to ease her back to sleep.

The moonlight streamed into his bedroom and across the floor, streaking over the bed, and over her body. He tilted his head to look at the scar, remembering what it had looked like before it had healed to its present state, the mess of destroyed flesh, blood, shattered bone. He trailed a finger over a line of puckered flesh radiating from the knitted, round circle-shaped scar just over her breast. It extended almost out to her shoulder. He followed its path, thinking back to the night he'd lost his temper with her in his office, the night when she'd been grabbed at the bar. He'd showed her the scar around his throat, intending to be menacing, to show her what his life brought. And now, she had her own. He hated that. It made him feel the stirrings of that horrible guilt he had lived with since the moment that bullet had pierced her chest.

She turned in her sleep, toward him. The quilt shifted on her body and moved off her breasts. Forrest glanced into her sleeping face, and leaned over to kiss her lips softly. She made that soft little murmuring noise again and he remembered what a heavy sleeper she had always been. He stared down at her breasts, feeling himself start to harden at the sight.

He lowered his mouth to her scar, following its shape with the tip of his tongue, pressing his lips against it and blowing on it gently. He trailed his lips down over the swell of her breast, the soft, rounded mound, before closing his lips around her pink, prominent nipple. He drew it lightly between his teeth, flicking it with the tip of his tongue, before pulling as much of the flesh into his mouth as he could manage. He softly cupped her other breast, squeezing lightly, loving the way her flesh burst between his fingers. He lowered his mouth to her other nipple, consuming it slowly, watching as she shifted a little under his mouth, but still did not fully wake.

He kissed a slow path from between her breasts down the center of her belly, stopping to languidly swirl his tongue in her navel. He kissed the soft, rounded flesh of her lower belly before moving lower. His hands stroked at her thighs, gently pulling them apart as he trailed his lips over pelvic bone, nuzzling her flesh. He softly kissed her inner thighs, feeling her stir a little more. He brought his face to her core, inhaling the scent he loved and missed, and tilted his head to the side. He parted her with the tip of his tongue, savoring her taste, before pushing into her deeper, sliding his tongue against her walls. Finally, he felt her start in surprise and clench up momentarily, before relaxing with a harshly exhaled breath and a soft, shaky moan.

He withdrew his tongue from her walls and slid it upwards until he found her little nub under a hood of flesh, hard and swelling, hot and smooth under his tongue. He lapped deeply against her, scooping it into his mouth and suckling while he felt himself grow achingly hard for a third time. Her thighs came around his head and he held them gently, feeling the muscles tighten and shake as he ate her flesh. He watched her from between her legs, watched the way her breasts rose and heaved with her gasps, her head tilted back into the pillow. He moved his tongue faster, desperate to taste the sweet nectar he knew her body made all over his tongue.

With a few more swipes, she burst into his mouth, breathing his name and rolling her hips against his lips. He sucked against her eagerly, the taste of her so familiar and sweet he could have cried. As her body trembled with the aftermath of her peak, he trailed his mouth up her belly and her chest, pausing to taste her nipples again, and then her scar, trailing his tongue up the line of her throat to scoop into her mouth, finding her tongue immediately, waiting for him, her warm lips eager as her hands came to his face. She was so wet from the attention of his mouth that it was no work at all to push inside her a third time. This time, he was in control. He stared down at her with hooded eyes as he began to rock into her, feeling her silken legs draw up his sides to wrap around his waist. He moved slowly, deeply, watching her, not wanting to miss a single expression she made or a noise that escaped her lips. Her hands cupped his neck as he brought his forehead to hers and they locked gazes as he increased the speed of his hip movements.

"Francie," he breathed against her lips. "Tell me."

"I love you," she whispered back immediately, knowing what he needed to hear and what she needed to tell him. "I love you."

He rumbled deeply against her neck. "Tell me, honey."

"I will never leave you again," she murmured, and then gasped as he snapped his hips against her.

"Promise," he said into her chest, his lips moving against her scar. "Promise me, dammit."

"I promise," she whimpered, and then keened out when he thrust hard into her again. She held him close, cupping his face to get him to look at her. His lower lip was clenched between his teeth, his eyelids heavy as they stared down at her. "Forrest, I promise, sweetheart. Please…"

He rolled his hips into her hard once more, and she raised her hips high to meet his, and it sent her over the edge. She cried out, pleasure consuming her, her fingers digging into him as tears leaked from her eyes. Forrest grunted, hard and deep, filling her for the third time and threatening to tear her in half. He breathed out through his mouth, his breath hot against her skin, feeling both of their hearts pounding against the other.

He lifted his head and looked down at her, seeing tears still coming from the corners of her eyes, and he brushed them away gently before smoothing her curls away from her face.

"Why the tears, honey?" he asked her softly.

"I'm happy," she breathed back, smiling through her tears. "I feel like I might be dreaming. Or maybe I really did die that day, and this is heaven."

"This is our _life_, now," he corrected her, stealing a kiss from her lips. "This ain't death or heaven or a dream. This is our life, and you're in it with me now, whether you goddamn like it or not."

He withdrew from her and moved the majority of his weight off of her, and laid alongside her. He felt the first real tugs of sleepiness coming upon him for the first time that night, and he felt that it was finally safe for him to sleep as long as she was there with him.


	36. Chapter 36

**A/N: Darlings, I bring you the conclusion of Out of the Night that Covers Me. I want to thank everyone who supported, read, and reviewed this story - it means SO VERY MUCH to me. Shout out to jwoo25 - this story is in part dedicated to you because I know the special place it has in your heart. Shoutout to Mals86 who helped me through a couple rough plot patches. Shoutout to Nik216 for continuing to be THE homegirl. And thanks again to all the reviewers - this is the second highest reviewed Lawless story on this site. WHAT! Love you all, and I leave you with the fluffiest of fluff I could manage. Besos.**

**Chapter 36**

It was the sweetest sleep he'd had in months.

He woke to the feeling of Francie kissing the scar at his throat. As always, he was momentarily shocked by the bursts of tingles he felt when it was touched by fingers other than his own. He made a deep, involuntary grumbling noise in his throat at the sensation and then felt her warm breath on his flesh when she let out a little giggle.

"I forgot you are ticklish there," she said softly. "It is peculiar how sensitive destroyed flesh becomes, isn't it? I felt it last night with – with my scar." Her cheeks turned pink as she said it, and he looked down at her, reaching out to touch the scar on her chest.

"This ain't destroyed," he replied. "This is perfect. 'Cause you're _here_."

She smiled and leaned her head on his shoulder. "I believe you are right."

They lay together, stroking each other's skin and scars, basking in the warmth of the softly glowing sun as it began its upward trajectory into the sky for the day. Forrest felt satisfaction and contentment, settling deep in his bones, and thought about what the future would hold – tomorrow, next week, next month. Twenty years from now. He thought back to the sweet dreams interspersed among the nightmares he had had over the past months and felt that perhaps they were premonitions that had a chance of coming true now. He thought of the one he recalled the most vividly, where there had been children around them. There had been a little girl, with dark, bouncing curls, not quite as raven as her mother's, and a pouty, pretty little mouth. Her eyes had been a beautiful bright blue. And there had been an even tinier little boy, the spitting image of his father except that his eyes were also an impossibly clear, bright crystal blue.

Their children; and she had been his wife.

He had never really considered marriage before. He had assumed that one day he might get married, as that was what a man did. He got married and he had children. For a time he had believed that Maggie could have been his wife, and they would have children. But Maggie had left him, and he had decided that perhaps marriage was not for him after all. But now, he felt entirely different.

His fingers found a lock of Francie's black curls and twirled it around his finger. She had promised him that she would never leave him again, and his silent promise in return to her was that he would never put her in a position to have to do that. For the millionth time since he had realized that she was really and truly alive and back next to him, he wondered what mercy, what grace, that God had bestowed upon her to make that happen.

"Francie," he murmured. She had begun to doze off again under the soothing feeling of his stroking fingers. She stirred a little.

"Hmm?"

"You mentioned it last night, but I was so out of my head I couldn't really pay attention. Tell me how you made it through to come back here to me."

Francie lifted her head and rubbed her eyes. "Well, the beginning parts are a bit of a blur, as I'm sure you understand. But after I began to recover, the doctor who took care of me in Roanoke got the word that someone was probably looking for me, someone who had hurt me in the past and was probably seeking to finish the deed. I believe Doctor Nelson was acquainted with the doctor in Roanoke, so I imagine that it was his warning. It was purely dumb luck that the woman with whom I shared my hospital room died and our charts were accidentally swapped. That was the telegram you received. The doctor in Roanoke told me what happened, and that I was to stay 'dead', and Francie Abellard ceased to exist. Then, I was transferred in secret to another hospital in Richmond so I could finish my recovery.

"By then Sheriff Potts had managed to work something out with the sheriff in New Orleans to throw Mrs. Lattimore in jail, and that of course made the news headlines. It caught the attention of a lawyer in town, a man that had been a very dear friend to my father and who had kept his estate when my father died last year. He had always been like an uncle to me, in fact, I called him Uncle. Well, when I became engaged to Thomas, I rarely saw Uncle Boyd after that. He assumed that I had been in safe hands the entire time and had no knowledge of all the things that had happened to me. He used his contacts to track me down, contacting Sheriff Potts, who contacted Doctor Nelson, who contacted the doctor in Roanoke, to find out where I was.

"He came to see me in the hospital in Richmond and was extremely distraught over what happened to me. I felt horrible, actually, because he blamed himself for not looking out for me. But he told the hospital that he was my caretaker, my uncle, and when I was released from the hospital, he brought me to his home so I could regain my strength. While I was there, he signed over my father's estate to me. I asked him to bring me by the plantation but you and your brothers were long gone by that time. I spoke of you to Uncle Boyd. I told him what you meant to me, and that I had to hurry and recover so that I could come see you. So I healed, I put my affairs in order, and I came out here."

"What does that mean?" Forrest asked, his fingers still playing in her curls. "Puttin' your affairs in order."

"Well, as I said, Uncle Boyd signed over my father's estate to me. He had originally been preparing to sign it over to Thomas when we got married. He told me the plantation was mine to live in if I chose. But I told him that I am done in New Orleans. There is nothing there for me except painful memories. I told him that I wanted the house to stay in family's hands, someone I trust, and I sold the plantation to Uncle Boyd." She smiled. "He assures me I will want it back one day, to fill it with sons of my own until they come of age and take it over themselves, just as my father did. He said he would keep it safe for me until I'm ready to take it back."

As she spoke of "sons" Forrest saw a shadow pass over her face. He stroked her cheek. "What is it?" he asked gently. She bit her lip and stared down at his chest.

"Forrest, I have something to tell you," she said quietly. "I'm not at all sure I know how."

"Just tell me," he said, his voice still calm and quiet, though his mind began racing. "What is it, honey?"

"When I was in the hospital in Roanoke, they ran tests on me, per their standard procedure." She spoke in a low voice, her eyes still glued to his chest. "And one of the tests they ran on me was – was – a pregnancy test."

Her words hung in the air above them and he stared at her downcast eyes. She could not be pregnant – that had been almost six months ago, and her belly was flat. He had seen it, felt it, kissed it. He was generally ignorant of a woman's reproductive system other than their apparent demonic possession once a month, but he knew enough to know that at almost six months pregnant, she would - she _should_ - have a belly to show him.

"And?" he asked. She sighed, and he dreaded what she would say next. He gently took her chin between his fingers and made her look up at him. Her eyes were slightly pink and watery. "Francie."

"I was pregnant," she whispered. "It was very early on. Very, very early. But I lost it, Forrest, I lost our baby because I lost so much blood." She bit her lip again and a single tear slipped down her cheek. "We made a baby, sweetheart, but I lost it."

Though she said precisely what he had expected to hear, Forrest suddenly felt like the rug had been pulled out from underneath him. _Pregnant,_ he thought, _with my baby._ He felt a sudden burning hate for that miserable bastard Rollins, and only wished he could bring him back to life and kill him again for taking something _else_ from him. And then he thought of what her belly would look like now, swollen with his baby, and how she might complain of her back and feet hurting and ask for ice-cream, and how he would move heaven and earth to keep her and his child safe, doting on them like a foolish soft-hearted man, and he felt a curious mixture of pleasure and sadness at the thought. That chance had been taken from them this time; but their life together now was only just beginning. Maybe there was still a chance.

"Could it be done again?" he asked, smoothing a hand over her head. "You're healed up now, and healthy. Could it happen again?"

She looked at him, startled, the tears in her eyes and on her cheeks forgotten as she lifted her eyebrows. "What do you mean?" she asked. "Could _what_ happen again?"

Forrest suddenly felt that now _he_ was the one who could not meet her eyes. "Us," he said slowly, "makin' a baby again. Could we do it?"

"You – you _want_ to have a baby with me?" she asked softly. She laughed a little, her cheeks turning pink. "My, my, Forrest."

"Why not?" he asked her quietly. "The only thing better than you would be a little pretty creature, with your blood and mine, sassy like her mama, tough like her daddy."

She stared at him in wonder, and he had to admit he was a little surprised at the words himself. But the more he thought of it, the more he wanted it.

"We'd get married first," he went on, hardly believing he was saying it. "In fact, I want to marry you right away. Do you want to marry me?" It was about as close to a proposal as he could ever manage.

"Of course I want to marry you, Forrest," she said softly, and her face was serious now. "But there's a problem."

"What?" he demanded. "What problem could there be if we know we want to get married to each other?"

"My blood is the problem," Francie replied, and reached up to stroke his cheek. "Forrest, there's a law against mixing races. It's called an anti-miscegenation law. It says that in just about every state in this country, you and I can't get married because I am one-quarter Negro and one-quarter Cherokee." She looked into his eyes sadly. "And Virginia upholds that law. Every state in the South upholds that law."

"Francie," Forrest said slowly, "when in the fuck-hell have you _ever_ known me to give a tinker's damn about what the law says?"

"Bootlegging is one thing," Francie replied. "This is quite another. If we broke the law, Forrest, and got married anyway, we could be arrested and put in jail. They would force us to separate."

He fumed as he stroked her back, his mind racing. He was still of a mind to where the law just simply did not apply to him; Forrest had always been a man to take what he wanted.

"Listen," he said after a moment. "It won't be fancy or nothin', at least not yet. But if you want to marry me, I will make it happen. Sheriff Potts can marry us in secret."

"And then what?" Francie asked. "Then we hide for the rest of our lives? Hide as I have been doing _all_ my life? I do not want to live that way anymore, Forrest. Though Franklin County is quiet and far more tolerant than any other place in the South I have visited, it would only be a matter of time."

"You said _most_ states have this law," he said. "What states _don't_?"

"I know that New York does not, for one," Francie replied. She looked at him in surprise. "Would you really be willing to leave Franklin County, your lifelong home, your brothers, for me? To go to _New York_?"

Forrest sighed and commenced stroking her back, staring up at the ceiling. For some time now, there had been murmurs about the upcoming election. It was said that that slick-tongued Governor of New York, Franklin Roosevelt, was promising the end of Prohibition to bring back the tax revenue that the sale of liquor brought. The taxes would stimulate the depressed economy, and he promised happy times would return once more if he was elected to the office of President of the United States in the election next month. It was looking more and more like he was a shoo-in for the office, and if that was the case, there would be no more bootlegging for him and his brothers.

And that was acceptable, Forrest thought. He and his brothers had had a good run for almost a decade now, and had squirreled away enough money to retire as relatively young men, maybe find something legitimate to do. Forrest was not a particularly sentimental man, and although this town held many memories for him, he felt no real ties between this land and his heart.

The only tie he felt was for the woman in his arms.

"If movin' out to that state is what I gotta do to make a life with you," he said slowly, "then that's what's gonna happen."

Francie shifted her body until she was lying on top of him, her knees on either side of his ribs. Her crystalline blue eyes sparkled down at him intensely. "Forrest, do you really mean it?"

He looked up at her, and the ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. "I ain't no city-slicker," he said. "But I mean it."

"There's plenty of country in New York, if you can believe it," she said softly. "We could build a home out where no one would find us. We could have a farm. My father always loved horses. We could have cows, be dairy farmers!" She smiled exuberantly down at him, and it almost took his breath away.

"You can have whatever you want," he told her quietly. "Everything you want." He pulled her head down and kissed her lips gently. "'Cause I already got everything I need right here."

Suddenly he remembered something, and he moved her off of him gently. "Just a minute." He reached over the side of the bed toward his bedside table and pulled the drawer open. He retrieved the item he was looking for and turned around to face her.

Her face took on a look of startled surprise, before her lips parted in a wide, sweet smile at the sight of her locket dangling from his hand. Forrest reached out and turned her around, pulling her against his chest, and draped the locket around her throat, fastening it behind her neck and then kissing it.

"Gettin' mighty tired of you losin' this damned thing all the time," he teased softly.

She fingered the piece of jewelry, shaking her head in wonder. "I thought of this all these months," she said quietly, "and I remembered that night. You told me you found it, and that you were going to clean it and fix it for me. When we – parted ways, and I was in Richmond and then back in New Orleans, I wondered if you had kept it. I thought it belonged with you, as you know what it means to me as no one else does. And here I find –" She turned and slipped a hand behind his head, pulling his lips down to meet hers. "You kept it safe for me, all this time."

"It was the only piece of you I had left," Forrest said gruffly, "that had been on you so much. I still have your suitcase here, your clothes, your book – but this here locket is what made me feel the closest to you."

She looked down at it, fingering the pendant, and looked back up at him, her eyes wide and full of tears. "Marry me today, Forrest," she said simply. "It must be today."

:O:O:O:

They were married before suppertime that day, with only Jack and Howard present. They had no rings, but knew that they had all the time in the world to get them. The only thing that mattered now was that they now officially belonged to each other.

They could not take the risk of sharing the news of their marriage, and made plans to leave for New York at the start of the following year to find land and build their home. They returned to Franklin County to remain through the spring, to witness Jack finally, _finally_ marry his Bertha. It was a beautiful day, and it was every bit the wedding they would have had, had they been able to. Shortly after, Howard married the young woman he had taken to courting the year before.

As many had predicted, Roosevelt became the new president, and Prohibition began its quick death. The house, the grand country house and farm in upstate New York that Forrest had contracted to have built was finished by the end of April. His brothers and their new wives came to visit, and Howard and Jack decided that they all needed to stick together, and made plans to build homes around the land, as well. Forrest felt annoyance that his brothers were butting into his space of land that he had carved out just for him and Francie, but she had only laughed and told him that their child was going to need its uncles close by. And, she had added with a wry grin, that when a girl married one Bondurant she understood that the other two were part and parcel of the deal. It took a great number of kisses and wheedling until Forrest grudgingly admitted that it was best "those two jackasses stay close by. Can't have them fuckin' up without me there to clean up their messes."

Howard worked at a textile mill in the nearby town, while Jack started an auto-detailing business. It took him a while to build up a sufficient clientele, but eventually he was able to open a garage. Forrest took to minding the animals on the farm that Francie had so desired – raising horses and cows as well, and becoming a successful dairy farmer. Francie had taken a page from Mrs. Everett's book and opened a tiny dress shop where she tailored and repaired clothing.

By the end of July, Francie gave birth to their first child – a boy. She initially intended to name him after his father, but as Forrest knelt next to her bed and kissed her sweaty temple, staring down at the child, _their _child, she cradled between them, he shook his head.

"Name him after your father," he told her gently. "I want him to know all about where he came from – on his mama and his daddy's side." And so Beauregard Fontaine Bondurant he became, called Beau by everyone.

Later that night, as Forrest leaned over the crib where his son was fast asleep, Francie smiled at him from their bed. She finished scraping up the last of the enormous meal that Bertha had brought her – chicken, gravy and rice. She set the plate on the nightstand next to their bed and Forrest glanced over at her.

"So we like chicken again, do we?" he murmured teasingly. During Francie's pregnancy, she had been unable to withstand the taste and smell of chicken. It did not matter if it was boiled, baked, roasted or fried – the smell of it, and, later, the mere sight of it would send her running to the nearest toilet.

"It was Beau," she said, mock-defensively. "I had forgotten how good it tastes."

Forrest nodded and looked back down at his sleeping son, reaching a hand down to gently rub his tiny chest. For a moment, Beau opened wide his sleepy, bright blue eyes before yawning widely and drifting back off, his little fist grasping one of Forrest's large fingers.

"He has your eyes," Forrest said to her. "That pretty bright blue."

"_All_ babies' eyes are blue when they're born," Francie reminded him.

Forrest shook his head. "His are gonna stay that way, and they're gonna look just like yours. Mark my words." He stroked Beau's soft little cheek lightly, marveling that this tiny, helpless creature was created from the love two people shared.

Francie smiled again and leaned her head back on the headboard, watching him look over his sleeping son as though to make sure that everything – hands, feet, fingers, toes, eyes, nose, and mouth – was precisely as it should be.

"You are going to be a wonderful daddy," she told him softly. "I cannot wait to see all the things you teach him."

Forrest looked up at her again, and this time he did smile, a half of one, and walked toward their bed. With a heavy sigh of contentment he stretched out next to her, wanting to hold her but needing to be careful of her still-swollen belly. Instead he carefully pulled her against his chest and his hands massaged at her shoulders, and he kissed her temple softly.

"You're gonna be a great mama," he said after a moment. "To all our babies."

She looked up him, lifting an eyebrow. "How many do you want?" she asked. She smiled teasingly. "I should have asked you this before we got married. I might have to divorce you."

Forrest grunted out something that could have been a chuckle and smoothed her black curls away from her forehead. "Personally, I'd like to have four. And as for you leavin' me – that'll never happen."

"I know." Francie reached up to bring his head down. "I told you I would never leave you, sweetheart. Ever again. And I meant it." She kissed him. "You brought me to life, my love."

Francie knew that at one time, she had _lived_ every day of her life. But it had not been until she and this strong, life-hardened young man, who had captured her entire heart and being in his large hands, had been thrust together under impossible circumstances that she had truly _come to life_. She had loved him past his numbed pain of a love lost, and in turn, he had freed her from a cloak of darkness. As Forrest nuzzled her neck, his hands soothing on her shoulders, she decided that they were meant to find each other. They had always been meant, and would always continue, to find each other in the night.


End file.
